FAME-SEEKERS 


ALICE  WOODS 


•YOU  LOOK  AT  ME  AS  IF  I  WERE  JUST  AXOTHER   BLUE  PLATE" 


FAME-SEEKERS 


BY 

ALICE  WOODS 

AUTHOR  OF  "EDGES" 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

MAY  WILSON  PRESTON 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1912, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I  LOUISA,  GLEASON  AND  THE  CROW    ...  1 

II  AT    MARY'S     .      . 13 

III  BLACK  COFFEE 26 

IV  INTO  THE  RUE  FALGUIERE 34 

V  WOMEN  WHOM  MEN  DO  NOT  FEAR  ...  41 

VI  AMONG  THE  BOOK-BINDERS  ...      .      .     45 

VII  HAZARD 55 

VIII  DUSK .60 

IX  MARCH  SNOW 67 

X  INVASION  .....,.,..  .     73 

XI  A  WHITE  LIE  .      . 88 

XII  CLOTHES .     94 

XIII  THE  DINNER 106 

XIV  IN  THE  BEGINNING    . 121 

XV  MORE  BEGINNINGS 127 

XVI  THE  UNEXPECTED 135 

XVII  A  WIRE  HAIRPIN 143 

XVIII  WHILE  A  CITY  SLEEPS 151 

XIX  CONFUSION 173 

XX  THE  CABLE 182 

XXI  BOOKS  AND  BINDINGS     .  .186 


2138883 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

XXII  THE  GIRL  AND  THE  STAR 197 

XXIII  THE  COMIC-OPERA  VALET    ,.,    „,    ..     ,.     .  205 

XXIV  HARBOUR  AND  CITY  .     ...     .     ...    ...     ...     .216 

XXV  THE  VICTOR ,„    ...     ,.     ,.  220 

XXVI  NATHALIE  CORSON     .     .     .,    ,.,     .     ..     .  228 
XXVII  LOUISA  GARTH  .     .,     ...  244 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 
"  YOU    LOOK    AT    ME    AS    IP    I    WERE    JUST    ANOTHER 

BLUE  PLATE  "    .  ....     Frontispiece 

SHE   CHALLENGED   HIM.   "  LET'S   MAKE   ROME 

BURN !"..., 44 

"  THE     CHANGE     IN     HER     IS     AS    SUBTLE     AS     SHE     IS 

HERSELF  " ,..        .        80 

"  NOW  THAT   I'VE   HAD  A   GOOD   MEAL   I   THINK  EVEN 

BETTER    OF    IT  "     ,  .    212 


PREFACE 

DISENCHANTMENT 

MODERN  life  has  produced  nothing  more  interest- 
ing, more  charming,  or  more  alarming,  than  the 
American  girl.  She  holds  about  all  that  there  seems 
to  be  of  art  and  moral  in  her  capable  young  hands. 
Each  year  now  she  goes  over  to  Paris  —  a  thousand 
or  more  of  her  —  to  study :  to  go  in  seriously  for 
music,  painting,  literature.  Seriously!  No  mat- 
ter what  her  station  or  her  circumstances  may  be, 
she  aims  now  to  be  professional.  She  doesn't  own 
the  aim,  even  to  herself,  but  there  it  lives  at  the  back 
of  her  eyes  to  peer  out  in  cryptic  cleverness.  She'll 
talk  it  all  over  with  you  —  she'll  talk  just  about 
anything  all  over  with  you  —  in  five  o'clock  tea- 
clinic  !  For  that  is  the  way  she  dissipates,  gets 
rid  of  herself  in  tea  and  talk.  She  cuts  out  sex, 
treating  men  as  she  says  she  likes  to  be  treated; 
she  gives  over  love,  and  she  tells  you  why  in  the 
well-conducted  terms  of  modern  arm-chair  science. 
The  one  thing  she  loves  is  going  to  school.  One 
stares,  dazed  and  saddened,  across  the  tea-table 
and  through  the  grey-toned  walls  of  her  rooms  to 
where  the  tender  light  of  sundown  hangs  upon  the 

ix 


PREFACE 

neglected  Dream.  One  shudders  before  the  possi- 
ble presence  of  things  of  Art,  conceived  in  tea, 
carved  of  cake-knife  and  made  to  stand  with  an  en- 
ergy that  has  smilingly  put  away  everything  but 
thinking. 

Up  to  a  certain  point  she  is  more  capable  than 
the  young  man  of  her  own  age,  from  her  own  or  any 
other  country.  Bewitching,  precocious,  promising, 
she  makes  her  stir.  Then  she  comes  to  the  "  cer- 
tain point,"  and  it  is  as  if  a  black  frost  had  passed. 
She  scarcely  lifts  her  head  again. 

Not  that  she  should  not  go  over  to  Paris.  She 
should :  the  more,  the  better  —  if  she  will  not  permit 
us  to  say  "  the  merrier."  If  she'd  but  go  more 
lightly,  go  for  a  lark  in  learning;  go  without  pre- 
tence, without  the  disturbing  confounding  of  mere 
good  taste  with  talent.  It  makes  for  disillusion- 
ment, and  it  means  coming  back  to  a  home  grown 
dull.  If  she  "  ends  "  by  marrying,  heaven  help  the 
man,  for  it  is  with  the  secret  gnawing  of  compromise 
or  condescension. 

If  she  goes  over  to  study  music,  it  is  with  the 
image  of  a  Mary  Garden  or  a  Mrs.  Stevens  in  the  tail 
of  her  eye;  if  it  is  for  painting,  she  feeds  her  soul 
upon  the  vision  of  a  Mary  Cassatt;  if  it  is  for  lit- 
erature, she  gives  her  sighs  to  the  lurking  half- 
taught  thought  of  supplying  the  national  gap  with 
the  martyred  spectacle  of  an  American  Georges 
Sand.  An  imitation,  be  it  never  so  appreciative, 


DISENCHANTMENT  xi 

does  not  conduct  to  the  Star-Zone.  If  she'd  only 
let  the  Star-Zone  be,  and  recognise  herself  for  the 
charming  human  being  that  she  is !  It  has  a 
treacherous  climate  —  the  Star-Zone.  It  is  a  ter- 
rible journey  there,  and  there  is  no  way  back.  If 
she  has  the  genius  to  help  her,  she  must  still  find  her 
own  way  to  the  station,  she  must  secure  her  own 
ticket  and  pay  for  it  herself;  she  must  check  her 
own  baggage  and  find  the  right  train;  and,  all  of 
that  done,  she  must  realise  the  soul-sickening  fact 
that  the  other  passengers  will  not  help  her,  will  even 
hinder  and  mislead  her  all  along  the  way.  And, 
once  arrived,  there  is,  curiously,  the  old  hard  ques- 
tion of  the  cost  of  living.  It  costs  infinitely  more, 
in  coin  visible  and  invisible,  to  live  in  the  Star-Zone 
than  it  does  even  upon  the  trying  earth.  Infinite 
things  must  carry  their  infinite  burdens.  And  when, 
across  the  infinite  loneliness,  the  girl  who  goes  meets 
a  Star  who  has  clung  a  little  to  her  habit  of  human 
speech,  the  girl  will  never  be  able  to  forget  the  in- 
finite look  out  of  her  eyes,  and  if  she  listens  she  will 
hear  that  it  is  all  very  hard  work,  and  that  Stars 
are  often,  very  often,  homesick. 


CHAPTER  I 

LOUISA,    GLEASON    AND    THE    CROW 

TOWARDS  the  end  of  a  late  August  afternoon  a  man 
and  a  young  woman  were  idling  along  a  Connecti- 
cut country  road.  The  weed-edged  way  trailed 
pleasantly  over  white-railed  bridges,  between  mead- 
ows and  grain-fields,  then  on,  tunnel-like,  through  a 
grove  of  tall  trees.  A  high  cleared  space  among 
the  trees  was  marked  by  the  grey  gables  and  red 
chimneys  of  a  prosperous  country  home.  The  two 
paused  at  the  edge  of  the  grove  to  stare,  enchanted, 
through  the  leaf-lined  tunnel  into  the  globe  of  sun- 
lighted  world  beyond.  A  crow  perched  upon  a 
fence-rail  near  by,  his  swaggering  awkwardness  giv- 
ing humour  to  the  drowsy  moment,  his  black  coat 
lending  the  dark  note  to  the  high-keyed  landscape 
and  his  beady  eye  glinting  the  warning  that  the 
devil  is  not  away  even  from  the  heart  of  thrift  and 
peace.  The  girl  was  tall  and  very  slight;  thick, 
bright  brown  hair  shadowed  her  small  face,  and  her 
eyes  were  of  a  grey  that  changed  with  the  colour  of 
her  clothes.  Her  clothes  were  experimental  but  not 
unconventional;  they  were  merely  compatible  with 
a  gentlewoman's  love  of  ease.  Her  mouth  was 


2  FAME-SEEKERS 

smaller  than  the  ideas  it  gave  speech  to.  Her  chin 
was  round,  her  nose  straight  enough  and  her  head 
was  well-set  upon  a  really  beautiful  throat.  Her 
name  was  Louisa  —  Louisa  Garth. 

The  man  was  rather  less  than  forty,  was  florid 
and  well  built,  and  from  the  shade  of  his  wide,  limp 
hat  his  shrewd  eyes  laughed  back  at  the  crow  on  the 
fence  with  the  tempered  reflection  of  the  beady 
glint  which  every  man  who  is  half  a  man  shares  with 
His  Majesty  in  Black  Feathers.  His  name  was 
William  Gleason. 

"  So,  Louisa-mine,"  and  Gleason  stuffed  his  pipe, 
"  in  one  short  week  I  shall  be  playing  at  being  a 
bachelor  again  ?  " 

"  You've  no  one  but  yourself  to  blame,"  hummed 
Louisa.  "  I'll  send  you  back  your  wife  as  soon  as 
I  am  able ;  never  fear,  Billy ! " 

"  And  how  she'll  be  welcome !  " 

"  She  does  not  want  to  go,  you  do  not  want  her 
to  go,  I  do  not  want  her  to  go.  Nevertheless,  she 
must  go.  It  is,  really,  perfectly  absurd !  " 

"  Possibly,  but  necessary,  by  the  light  of  my 
lamps,"  and  Gleason  touched  his  brow  solemnly. 

Louisa  took  him  in  with  long-suffering  endurance. 

"  Your  lamps!     But,  Billy,  I'm  not  a  baby." 

"Aren't  you?" 

"  You  pretend  to  be  so  modern,  and  you  are, 
really,  hopelessly  old-fashioned.  Don't  you  know 
that  there  are  almost  as  many  dull  and  entirely 


LOUISA,  GLEASON  AND  THE  CROW        3 

proper  Americans  living  in  Paris  as  there  are  in 
America  ?  " 

"  All  of  whom  you  have  carefully  cut  out  of  your 
present  plan." 

Louisa  laughed,  gave  in  for  a  moment's  rest,  then, 
with  an  air  of  patience,  began  again :  "  Grace  is  a 
dear  girl  and  all  the  sister  I  have,  but  she  doesn't 
understand  me  in  the  very  least.  She  doesn't  un- 
derstand anyone,  not  even  you,  Billy  Gleason! 
She's  never  thought  of  such  a  thing  in  all  her  life. 
She  was  born  knowing  what  to  do,  what  to  say, 
what  to  expect." 

"  Grace  adores  you,"  Gleason  reminded  her. 

"  And  you :  without  as  much  as  one  idea  why  for 
the  two  of  us." 

"  Umm  ?  "  Gleason  fondled  his  pipe.  "  I  fancy, 
'Wisa-mine,  that  I  shall  just  go  on  accepting  what- 
ever adoration  comes  my  way  without  too  much 
probing." 

Louisa  spent  upon  him  a  gaze  of  lavish  toler- 
ance. 

"  It's  a  fine  thing  to  be  a  woman  like  Grace," 
went  on  Gleason. 

"  It's  a  marvellous  thing,"  Louisa  agreed  ardently. 
"  All  the  same,"  and  her  voice  broke  into  a  spicy 
laugh,  "  you  like  having  me  about  the  house  to  liven 
things  up,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  do  indeed,"  Gleason  admitted  fully.  They 
were  leaning  against  the  wooden  fence  that  skirted 


4  FAME-SEEKERS 

the  grove,  and  with  a  chuckle  Gleason  faced  her. 
"  It's  no  matter  of  amazement  to  me,  my  dear  girl, 
that  you  want  a  fling  in  Paris  minus  apron-strings. 
Who  doesn't?  Unfortunately  it  isn't  the  thing  to 
own  up  to  our  flings,  and  my  acquiescence  wouldn't 
be  worth  a  drop  in  the  bucket." 

"  I  do  not  want  a  fling."  Louisa  was  indignant. 
"  If  I  did  I'd  certainly  not  be  held  back  by  any  leaky 
old  oaken  bucket  full  of  drivelling  opinions." 

Gleason  folded  his  arms  and  took  her  in  as  an 
elephant  might  have  taken  in  an  enraged  kitten. 

"  A  fling,"  sighed  Louisa,  "  would  be  only  too 
easy,  and  nothing  in  it  when  I  got  it.  Why  won't 
you  see,  Billy,  that  I'm  in  earnest  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  about  this  book-binding  fad  ?  " 
asked  Gleason  curiously.  "  Isn't  all  that  just  a 
new  name  for  fling?  I'm  not  artistic,"  he  laughed, 
"  but  I  like  looking  at  a  pretty  pair  of  hands,  and 
I'm  not  one  bit  for  consenting  to  the  spoiling  of  a 
pair  like  yours,  to  no  purpose.  What's  the  sense 
in  it?  You  can't  want  to  make  money  for  you  al- 
ready have  more  than  you  can  conveniently  spend. 
I  don't  suppose  there  is  any  money  in  it,  anyway? 
And  if  it  is  just  to  make  Christmas  presents,  why 
not  select  something  easier?  " 

Louisa  ignored  him,  then,  after  a  pause :  "  And 
so,  poor  old  Gracious-Goodness  must  be  martyred, 
too,  just  because  I  happen  to  have  chosen  a  thing 
that  you  had  never  considered,  and,  just  because  she 


LOUISA,  GLEASON  AND  THE  CROW        5 

is  married,  poor  dear,  she  must  make  a  journey  she 
detests  and  see  me  started  on  my  downward  way 
in  all  propriety !  " 

Gleason  eyed  her  with  renewed  amusement.  "  Be- 
ing married,  my  dear  'Wisa,  gives  the  most  com- 
monplace women  advantages  —  dozens  of  'em !  — 
over  the  smartest  girl  a-going.  If,"  and  Gleason 
grinned,  "  you  finally  decide  to  stay  single,  and  if, 
for  consolation,  you  ever  take  to  pipes,  just  stuff 
one  with  that  bit  of  wisdom  and  think  of  your  dot- 
ing brother-in-law  while  you  smoke  it  down  to  the 
cinders." 

Louisa  wore  a  slightly  heightened  colour.  "  Well," 
she  sighed,  *'  no  doubt  I'll  finish  by  getting  married. 
Everybody  does,  sooner  or  later.  But  even  if  I 
prove,  by  giving  in,  not  to  have  had  the  courage  of 
my  ignorance,  there  will  always  be  left  me  the  back- 
ground of  a  worthy  modesty.  I  shall  hang  fast 
to  that.  It  isn't  from  conceit  that  I  want  to  avoid 
the  old  way,  it's  only  that  I  find  the  way  so  dull !  " 
She  dared  him  a  moment  then  smiled  wistfully  be- 
fore her.  "  I  know  my  shallow  self  so  well !  I'll 
come  back,  and  I'll  get  married;  and  I'll  smile,  as 
blissful  as  another.  I'll  very  nearly  believe  in  my 
own  smiles ! " 

"  Then  why  all  this  temporising?  " 

"  It's  no  use  arguing  with  you." 

"  You  flatter  me." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to,"  she  shot  him  a  glance,  "  so 


6  FAME-SEEKERS 

there  is  no  occasion  to  boast  about  it.  You,"  she 
hesitated,  giving  him  time  to  follow  the  swerve,  "  you 
have  all  kinds  of  faith  in  Nathalie  Corson.  You 
know  that  she,  at  least,  is  really  in  earnest.  You 
know  that  I  am  going  straight  to  her.  Why  not 
spare  Grace  the  miserable  voyage  across,  and  rely 
upon  Nathalie?  I  promise,"  she  laughed,  "  to  ask 
her  to  conduct  my  very  breathing." 

"  Bah !  "  Gleason  returned  the  laugh.  "  I  know 
as  well  as  you  do  that  you  can  take  very  good  care  of 
yourself  in  half  a  dozen  languages.  It's  the  look 
of  the  thing  that  matters." 

"  That's  hypocritical.     It  should  not  matter." 

"  But  it  does,  it  does.     I  can't  help  it !  " 

"  You  can.  It's  just  the  silly  giving-in  of  men 
like  you  —  too  lazy,  you  are,  to  change  anything  — 
that  it  goes  on  mattering." 

Gleason  fumed  and  smoked. 

"  Nathalie  works,  if  you  like,  Billy.  And  she  is 
the  happiest  person  I  have  ever  known." 

"  Happy  ?  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  child.  Nath- 
alie is  a  charming  girl,  certainly,  but  that  argues 
nothing  for  you.  She,"  he  laughed  her  down,  "  is 
not  charming  in  the  delightfully  dangerous  way 
that  you  are  charming.  That  very  *  happiness ' 
that  you  so  admire  excludes  her  from  the  large 
protectiveness  of  man.  You,  my  dear  'Wisa,  give 
us  no  such  impression.  We'd  like,  one  and  all,  to 
look  after  you.  Do  you  see  ?  " 


LOUISA,  GLEASON  AND  THE  CROW        7 

"  Nat's  not  so  awfully  self-sufficient.  She's  as 
sweet  as  she  can  be." 

"  Damn  it,  I  didn't  say  anything  about  her  sweet- 
ness. I  don't  know  anything  about  it.  I  do  know 
you.  And  I'll  bet  there's  a  lot  of  temper  in  Natha- 
lie Corson's  temperament.  Hang  your  tempera- 
ments, Louisa.  They  scare  an  honest  man  to  death." 

"  I'd  rather  be  too  alarming  than  too  honest," 
Louisa  shot  him  a  glance. 

"  You'd  better  think  it  over,"  Gleason  paid  inter- 
est on  her  glance. 

"  Billy  Gleason,"  and  Louisa  fairly  challenged 
him,  "  now,  just  for  one  minute  tell  me  the  truth. 
If  it  weren't  for  your  business  interests,  if  there 
was  nothing  in  your  life  but  this  peace,  idleness, 
comfort  and  —  Grace,  wouldn't  you  be  dull  unto 
death?" 

The  crow  rose  from  the  fence,  cawing  and  flap- 
ping himself  away,  and  Gleason  lifted  his  hat  in 
mock  ceremony,  then  he  gave  all  of  his  attention  to 
Louisa.  "  A  live  man's  life  is,  of  course,  composed 
of  more  than  one  game." 

"  You  are  trying  to  disarm  me  by  conceding. 
It's  a  trick  that  any  woman  knows,  Billy." 

"  Maybe,"  he  considered  her.  "  You  see,  dear 
girl,"  and  he  became  as  serious  as  she  liked,  "  I  know 
all  about  work,  and  the  time  has  been  when  I  knew 
little  enough  about  being  idle.  And  it  has  earned 
for  me  —  all  the  fighting  —  a  profound  contempt 


8  FAME-SEEKERS 

for  dabbling.  It  would  be  absolutely  impossible 
for  you,  Louisa,  to  do  other  than  dabble.  It  isn't 
your  fault;  it's  simply  your  fact.  Why,  look  at 
your  hands.  Hold  'em  up  to  the  daylight  and  look 
at  'em!  Go  over  to  Paris,  go  to  the  moon  if  you 
like,  and  play  all  you  please,  but  don't  try  to  bam- 
boozle me  about  work." 

Louisa  held  forth  her  hands  and  looked  at  them 
in  dismay.  "  Oh,"  she  moaned  over  them,  "  what 
are  such  weak  things  to  make  of  themselves ! " 

The  confession  of  weakness  stirred  the  big  man  in 
all  of  his  strength  and  he  took  one  of  the  condemned 
hands  and  laid  it  on  the  palm  of  his  own.  "  It's 
the  very  devil,  of  course,  for  a  girl  like  you,  with  a 
brain  in  your  pretty  head.  It's  the  worst  sort  of 
head-ache  there  is,  isn't  it?  And  when  you  look  at 
me  like  that  —  sort  of  a  mixture  of  Joan  of  Arc 
and  a  doe  looking  into  the  wrong  end  of  a  gun  — 
I'm  all  yours  to  command.  I'm  selfish,  too,  about 
your  going.  Grace  will  come  back,  and  it  will  be  at 
once  as  if  she  had  never  been  away.  But  you  will 
never  come  back  to  stay.  If  you  do  come,  you'll 
have  outgrown  us." 

Louisa  flushed  again  in  the  glow  of  her  pink 
sun-hat.  "  I'll  have  to  do  a  great  deal  of  growing, 
Billy,  before  that  happens !  " 

"  You  see,"  and  Gleason  dropped  the  hand,  star- 
ing at  it  for  an  absent  moment  where  it  hung,  lax, 
among  the  folds  of  her  linen  dress,  "  I  can't  help 


LOUISA,  GLEASON  AND  THE  CROW        9 

thinking  you'd  be  happier  if  you'd  just  chuck  all 
the  ideas  and  get  married." 

"  What  a  picture  of  marriage !  How  tempting, 
Billy!  'Chuck  all  the  ideas'!  And,  if  I  did,  to 
whom?  " 

Gleason  gave  her  an  injured  look.  "  I  like  that. 
At  least  seven  of  'em  have  been  consistently  ruining 
my  health  with  attentions  more  or  less  liquid  for  the 
last  two  years  of  my  life.  And  mighty  little  sym- 
pathy they,  or  I,  have  got  from  you." 

Louisa  was  the  picture  of  depression.  "  And 
what  a  seven,  Billy ! "  She  bent  towards  him,  her 
eyes  aglow.  "  Why  on  earth  didn't  you  spare  me 
all  this  botheration  by  simply  having  a  twin 
brother?  " 

"  You'd  have  seen  any  twin  of  mine  in  Halifax, 
that  I  know,"  smiled  Gleason,  puffing  hard  at  his 

Pipe- 
Then  came  a  tap-tapping  of  hoofs  upon  the  hard 
road,  and  they  turned  to  peer  under  their  hands 
into  the  flaring  west. 

"  It's  dear  old  Gracious-Goodness,"  said  Louisa. 
"  She's  coming  in  earlier  than  usual.  How  she  does 
love  a  horse !  "  Then,  slowly,  "  She  is  superb,  Billy. 
Marble  thing  that  she  is !  " 

Grace  Gleason,  saw  them,  waved  her  hand  and 
drew  up  near  them.  She  was  perfect  of  poise  and 
habit,  unruffled  in  spite  of  the  heat  of  the  day.  The 
red  light  played  splendidly  upon  her  tall,  firm  figure 


10  FAME-SEEKERS 

and  the  brown-coated  horse.  Her  thick  hair  was 
wound  in  a  great  brown  braid  about  her  head  and 
a  sailor  hat  shaded  her  quiet  eyes.  Her  profile 
was  exquisite,  her  skin  delicately  flushed.  A  smile 
scarcely  disturbed  her  repose  before  it  had  slipped 
by.  She  bent  a  little  while  Gleason  stroked  the 
arched  neck  of  her  horse.  "  Still  dawdling  about, 
you  two?  I'd  have  fancied  you  deep  in  shade,  and 
arm-chairs,  and  juleps!" 

"  Confess,  dear  girl,  that  you  haven't  thought  of 
us  at  all ! "  smiled  Louisa. 

Grace  smiled  serenely.  "  I  don't  think  much 
when  I  ride,"  she  owned.  "  Come  in  and  I'll  make 
you  something  cool  to  drink  for  my  penance.  The 
dust  is  choking,  isn't  it?  "  and  with  a  nod  over  her 
shoulder  she  rode  on,  turning  in  at  a  wide  gate  half 
way  down  the  drive  through  the  grove. 

Gleason  straightened  his  coat  and  put  his  pipe 
away.  "  Shall  we  go  in  ?  "  he  suggested  absently, 
staring  down  the  leafy  tunnel,  enchanted  anew  with 
the  restfulness  of  the  quiet,  aimless  woman. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  agreed  Louisa.  "  Bewitched  of 
men!" 

They  moved  along  the  shady  drive.  Once  Glea- 
son glanced  at  Louisa,  ready  to  go  on  with  their  dis- 
cussion, but  her  profile  was  turned  from  him  and  her 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  disc  of  sun-glowing  world 
at  the  other  end  of  the  grove,  enchanted  by  some- 
thing they  saw,  too ! 


LOUISA,  GLEASON  AND  THE  CROW      11 

They  turned  in  at  the  gate  in  silence.  Louisa 
stopped  at  the  flower-beds  on  the  lawn,  and  picked 
a  spray  of  heliotrope.  "  It  may  not  be  so  bad,  you 
know,  Billy,  for  your  wife  to  see  a  bit  of  the  world 
along  with  me."  Her  eyes  dared  him  a  little. 

"Bad  for  her?  Bless  her."  Gleason  laughed  boy- 
ishly. "  She'd  get  quite  as  much  out  of  a  journey 
around  her  own  flower-beds!  Oh,  no,  it  won't  be 
bad  for  her." 

Louisa  moved  slowly,  studying  the  purple  of  the 
heliotrope  against  the  white  of  her  hand.  Gleason 
looked  on  from  the  door,  smiling,  and  holding  the 
screen  open  for  her  patiently.  She  took  her  own 
time,  for  so  it  amused  her  to  do,  and  so  she  knew 
that  it  amused  Gleason. 

"  You  are  fond  of  heliotrope,  Billy  ?  "  She  stopped 
on  the  very  sill  of  the  door,  wonderfully  preoccupied. 

"  I  don't  hate  it,"  conceded  Gleason,  gently  allow- 
ing the  screen  to  swing  to,  to  force  her  on  into  the 
shadowy  hall. 

She  cast  a  sidelong  glance  of  indignation  upon 
the  screen,  brushed  its  invisible  dust  from  her  sleeves, 
spent  a  sigh  upon  the  sweetness  of  the  heliotrope, 
then  went  slowly  upstairs  to  take  off  her  hat. 

"  Billy,"  she  paused  half  way  up,  laughing  down  at 
him. 

"'Wisa?" 

"  Oh,"  she  gave  in  to  a  change  of  whim,  "  just  — 
nothing ! "  And  she  ran  up  the  rest  of  the  way. 


12  FAME  SEEKERS 

"  That's  what  I  think  about  it  too !  "  Gleason  shot 
the  taunt  after  her  arrow-like. 

And  even  so,  one  more  fair,  bright-eyed  girl  with 
a  little  more  than  enough  of  brain  to  allow  her  to 
be  contented  in  the  tranquil  life  she'd  been  born  to, 
went  wilfully  forward  to  hurry  the  slow  unfolding 
of  her  panorama ;  went  with  a  bit  of  heliotrope  in 
one  hand  and  the  other  free  to  attend  to  the  hurry- 
ing. Should  both  hands  be  necessary  for  the  hur- 
rying she  can  always  hold  the  heliotrope  in  her  teeth. 
That's  the  way  she  thinks  it  out. 


CHAPTER  II 

AT  MARY'S 

IN  a  students'  restaurant  in  the  Montparnasse  quar- 
ter of  Paris,  a  small,  green-painted  place,  with 
Mary's  (not  Mane's,  flattered  Saxons  were  pleased 
to  note)  written  up  on  the  green-curtained  window 
in  flowing  white  porcelain  letters,  Keating  sat  alone 
at  a  corner  table  waiting  for  his  friend  Burroughs. 
That  it  was  too  early  for  anyone  to  dine,  that  Bur- 
roughs was  not  due  to  arrive  for  another  half-hour, 
were  details  that  Keating  chose  to  ignore.  He  had 
taken  the  corner  table  from  habit ;  not  that  he  liked 
corners,  but  that  he  preferred  grim  pleasures  to  no 
pleasures  at  all ;  because  he  was  a  talented  beggar 
who  loved  life  but  could  not  pay  the  admission  fees ; 
because,  from  a  near-by  solitude  he  knew  how  to  steal 
from  gaiety,  knew  how  to  even  amuse  himself  at 
playing  the  sombre  part  of  outsider  to  the  careless 
game.  From  this  particular  corner,  at  this  par- 
ticular moment,  and  out  of  this  particularly  effec- 
tive solitude  he  was  able,  with  a  dignity  that  soothed 
—  Burroughs  was  actually  coming  —  to  appreciate 
Mary  at  her  desk. 

Mary   was    conveniently   preoccupied   with   what 
13 


14  FAME-SEEKERS 

had  been  written  into  the  pages  of  an  enormous 
ledger.  God  alone  ever  knows  the  statistics  of  a 
Mary  at  a  ledger,  but  the  Keatings  know  that  her 
preoccupations  are  nothing  if  not  skin-deep.  The 
wise  thief  knows  the  wise  thief,  and  though  he  doesn't 
go  in  for  catching,  he  gets  his  own  sort  of  fun  out 
of  the  secret  flapping  of  his  sinister  little  flags. 
Keating  and  Mary  knew  perfectly  well  how  to  put 
in  their  idle  half-hour. 

The  restaurant  and  Mary  expressed  their  asso- 
ciation! in  art-nouveau.  Mary  was  fundamentally 
traditional,  and  she  knew  how  to  nurse  her  "  stu- 
dents "  through  their  maladies  of  art,  herself  im- 
mune. As  far  as  symptoms  had  to  do  with  adorn- 
ment, she  accepted  them  even  as  the  reasonable 
leopard  accepts  a  certain  number  of  spots.  Mary 
had  the  advantage  of  a  certain  prospect  of  change, 
and  it  is  change  that  makes  a  stoic  of  a  Mary.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  deeper  things  than  the  fads  and 
follies  of  arts  and  artists.  Her  eyes  were  grey  and 
dark,  and  her  great  soft  knot  of  dark  hair  was  held 
in  place  by  the  newest  things  in  imitation  shell. 
She  wore  a  black  dress,  light  tan  shoes,  a  high  and 
polished  linen  collar  and  an  absurd  little  art-nou- 
veau apron,  with  pockets  that  helped  to  keep  her 
hands  and  pencils  together. 

The  restaurant  business  had  taught  Mary  a  few 
small  facts  about  many  great  people.  She  had 
learned  that  professional  women  eat  very  little  and 


AT  MARY'S  15 

pay  at  once,  that  professional  men  eat  a  great  deal 
and  pay  when  they  must.  She  reasoned,  woman- 
wise,  that  if  a  great  many  young  men  came  con- 
stantly to  the  restaurant  the  women  would  not  be 
slow  to  follow,  and  the  women  would  pay.  Clearly 
the  thing  was  to  fill  the  place  with  big,  noisy,  tal- 
ented young  men.  The  aspect  of  that  would  be  suc- 
cess, and  with  the  most  becoming  of  wrinkles  upon 
her  brow,  she  concluded  that  such  an  aspect  would 
be  about  as  fascinating  as  success  itself.  She  knew 
better  than  anybody  that  a  house  built  upon  art- 
nouveau  had  not  long  to  stand,  and  that  it  might  as 
well  be  a  gay  life  if  a  short  one.  Hence  the  ledger. 

It  was  an  October  night,  and  raining ;  a  slanting, 
splashing,  lukewarm  rain  such  as  washes  Paris 
bright  every  now  and  then  the  year  around.  By 
seven  o'clock  the  restaurant  was  filling  up,  the  air 
hazing  over,  the  dampness,  umbrellas  and  mud-tracks 
deepening  the  wrinkle  in  Mary's  white  brow. 

Burroughs  had  long  since  outgrown  the  enchant- 
ment of  cheap,  mysterious  food;  but  he  realised  the 
convenience  of  credit  to  Keating,  and  he  came  along 
without  much  grumbling.  Burroughs  came  in  as 
the  distorted  little  clock  creaked  seven,  put  his  um- 
brella in  a  rack  where  he  could  keep  an  eye  upon  it, 
gave  Mary  a  nod,  then  joined  Keating,  accepting 
his  place  with  his  back  to  the  crowd  with  the  in- 
difference of  a  man  who  has  helped  get  up  a  show 
or  two  himself. 


16  FAME-SEEKERS 

"  Hello,  Keating.  I  just  received  a  telegram 
from  Miss  Corson.  She  asks  me  to  bring  you  down 
to-night  for  some  music.  She  says  some  cattish 
things  about  your  being  able  to  put  up  with  my  ac- 
companying her,  but  other  than  that  the  invitation 
is  charming."  He  spoke  rapidly,  nodding  over  his 
shoulder  at  people  he  knew,  avoiding  Keating's  eye. 
Keating  smiled  drily,  made  no  response,  called  the 
waitress  and  applied  himself  to  ordering  his  dinner. 

Burroughs  ordered,  too,  and  the  waitress  left  them. 
Keating  folded  his  arms  upon  the  table  and  looked 
Burroughs  in  the  eyes,  and  Burroughs,  looking 
back,  saw  that  he  was  pallid.  Keating  laughed, 
recklessly  shattering  the  tension.  "  Paris  is  too 
much  for  me,"  he  said.  "  I'm  too  green  for  the  old 
place  to  swallow,  I  guess.  I  can't  get  to  work,  and 
just  to  think  of  paint  makes  me  sick.  I  could  smell 
paint  to-day  for  the  first  time  in  my  life." 

"  Eating  regularly  ?  "  demanded  Burroughs,  with 
man's  unvarnished  kindness. 

"Regularly?"  he  laughed.  "Too  regularly, 
thanks  to  the  angel-Mary  and  her  foolishness.  It's 
not  that.  I'm  so  damnably  self-conscious.  I  im- 
agine that  everybody's  staring  at  me,  and  I'm  hurt 
like  a  fool-girl  if  they  don't.  I'm  all  hands  and  feet, 
and  too  heavy  to  get  out  of  the  way.  Don't  know 
where  to  get  to  when  I  do  move.  Don't  know  what 
I  want." 

Burroughs  took  him  in  humorously.     "  You  are 


AT  MARY'S  17 

much  too  big,  my  son,  to  fit  into  new  quarters  without 
bruising.  You  see,  you've  tumbled  off  the  lap  of  a 
perfectly  organised  mother-land  into  an  intricately 
gardened  play-ground  where  they  think  of  mothers 
not  at  all."  He  paused  a  moment  to  tap  his  piece 
of  meat  with  a  doubting  fork  and  to  shake  his  head 
sadly  at  Mary.  Mary  looked  on  at  all  things  that 
happened  between  seven  and  nine  o'clock  with  croco- 
dile slumber  in  her  eye.  "  I  know  what's  the  trouble, 
Keating ;  so  does  anybody  who  has  tried.  You  want 
to  know  where  you  are,  and  not  believing  everything 
you  hear,  you've  got  to  find  out  for  yourself.  You 
suspect  every  corner  of  hiding  something  choice,  and 
when  you  butt  into  it  you  find  it  as  empty  and  dusty 
as  all  the  other  old  corners.  Being  a  man  you  won't 
take  my  word  for  it.  Better  find  a  girl  —  any  little 
goose  in  petticoats  —  to  show  you  about.  I  don't 
mean  that  I'd  have  you  bring  her  here  to  Mary's  to 
dine.  You'd  soon  lose  your  credit !  Besides,  it  isn't 
your  mission  to  instruct  the  all-seeing  girl-student 
in  our  higher  ethics.  They  overestimate  its  im- 
portance, and  they  have  painfully  good  memories. 
The  thing  is,"  and  Burroughs  dropped  all  the  banter 
out  of  his  voice,  "  having  crossed  the  seas  to  come  to 
Paris,  do  not  be  an  idiot  and  sit  down  for  ever  among 
the  Americans.  Get  out  of  this  quarter  into  the  real 
thing.  You'll  find  that  in  Paris  they  take  this  quar- 
ter for  a  tragic  jest.  Maybe  they  are  wrong;  I 
even  think  they  are,  but  it's  an  instructive  fact  to 


18  FAME-SEEKERS 

get  into  one's  head.  Mary  doesn't  fool  a  French- 
man any  more  than  she  gives  him  credit.  We  think 
we  fool  everybody,  and  we  only  fool  ourselves. 
Don't  take  yourself  too  seriously.  Leave  that  to 
the  girls.  It's  becoming  to  them  and  it  keeps  'em 
out  of  mischief*  Let  paint  go  hang  for  a  while, 
give  it  a  snubbing,  and  it  will  come  back  a-begging. 
So  far  as  you  are  concerned,  you  are  simply  tired." 
After  a  silence  he  asked  irrelevantly,  "  Are  you 
coming  with  me  down  to  Miss  Corson's  to-night?  " 

Keating  looked  at  Burroughs  as  if  he'd  only  half 
heard,  then  he  laughed.  "  Oh,"  he  made  an  off- 
hand gesture,  "  I'm  going,  this  time !  No  need  of 
being  uneasy  or  tactful.  My  time  has  come,  and  I 
intend  to  die.  You  won't  let  me  be,  you  and  those 
girls,  so  I  am  going  along  from  now  on  just  to  get 
rid  of  you." 

"  Put  it  any  way  you  like,  just  so  you  go,"  said 
Burroughs.  "  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  Keating, 
that  if  you  had  refused  to  go  to-night  I  was  ready 
to  lay  before  you  a  very  crude  piece  of  my  mind. 
It  wouldn't  have  been  good  for  you  after  Mary's 
food,  either.  There's  no  reason  in  carrying  resent- 
ment, or  sensitiveness,  or  pride,  or  whatever  you 
want  to  call  your  mulishness,  to  such  a  point.  The 
troublesome  incident  on  ship-board  was  unfortunate, 
but  it  would  have  died  a  natural  death  in  all  mem- 
ories concerned  if  you  hadn't  kept  on  rattling  its 
silly  bones."  He  doubled  for  a  moment  in  an 


AT  MARY'S  19 

amused  laugh.  "  If  genius  will  cross  in  the  steer- 
age, and  will  skylark  with  a  brown  throat  in  a  cash- 
mere shawl  through  a  dusk  that  isn't  quite  dark  — ! 
It's  a  known  fact  that  genius  can't  hide,  and  if  the 
right  girl  in  the  cabin  de  luxe  gets  wind  of  the  gen- 
ius in  the  steerage,  she'll  go  to  him  if  he  may  not 
come  to  her!  The  girl  in  the  first  cabin  glories  in 
condescension  even  as  the  genius  in  the  steerage 
hopes  in  climbing.  I  do  not  believe  that  the  modern 
girl  in  the  first  cabin  imagines  the  genius  in  the 
steerage  *  sits  apart.'  By  Jove,  Keating,  if  Miss 
Garth  can  stand  catching  you  with  your  arm  about 
that  little  Italian,  and  can  forget  it,  you  ought  to 
be  able  to  forget  it,  too." 

"  I  don't  care  much  for  your  girls  who  can  stand 
things,  and  forget  them,"  said  Keating. 

"  I've  been  making  excuses  for  you  for  just  about 
ten  weeks  now.  I  don't  mean  about  the  girl  in  the 
grey  shawl.  I  mean  about  your  not  coming  to 
them.  But,  my  tact  is  beyond  repair.  When  a 
man  wears  out  his  tact  he  likes  having  a  hand  in  the 
profits,  and  I  don't  see  where  I  come  in  in  lying  for 
you.  She's  a  mighty  nice  girl,  and  you  won't  be 
sorry." 

"  I  like  Miss  Corson  very  much,"  said  Keating 
grimly. 

"Who  doesn't?"  agreed  Burroughs.  "What 
has  she  got  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  As  for  Miss  Garth  —  "     Keating  lighted  a  cig- 


20  FAME-SEEKERS 

arette,  then  he  gave  Burroughs  the  benefit  of  an 
open  glance  that  made  him  think  of  the  great  prairies 
that  had  mothered  and  nourished  him.  "  I  am 
a  fool  and  a  weakling  to  walk  into  her  trap.  You 
have  forced  me  to  talk  about  her,  so  now  listen  to  me, 
for  I  am  going  to  talk,  once  and  for  all.  That  she's 
gifted,  and  out  of  the  ordinary,  and  a  beauty,  I  don't 
need  to  be  told.  I'm  a  bumpkin  off  a  farm,  but  I 
came  off  some  time  ago,  and  a  line  of  art-schools 
all  the  way  from  St.  Louis  to  Philadelphia  is  likely 
to  teach  even  a  bumpkin  things  about  women, 
*  girls,'  if  you  like  that  better.  Blundering  ass  that 
I  am,  I  do  know  that  there's  no  safety  for  me  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  a  girl  with  the  trick  of  looking  as 
she  does.  I  know  all  about  their  tricks,  but  I  let 
'em  fool  me  over  again  every  time.  It's  the  mystery 
trick,  and  it's  a  blamed  sight  less  square  and  more 
harmful  than  the  game  of  a  gamin  like  that  girl 
Mary  up  there  at  her  desk.  And  Burroughs,"  he 
stopped  and  laughed  curiously,  "  there's  something 
about  my  brutal  awkwardness  that  draws  'em,  and 
makes  'em  come  after  me.  I  don't  have  to  try ;  I 
just  sit  around  in  a  corner,  and  they  come.  Do  you 
think  I've  got  time  for  that  sort  of  thing?  I  have 
to  conduct  myself  with  common-sense,  I  tell  you.  I 
don't  want  any  of  their  hand-holding,  star-gazing 
trifling.  I  can't  afford  it.  Damn  it,  Burroughs," 
he  broke  off  savagely,  "  I  want  to  go  with  you ! 
She  doesn't  paint,  she  didn't  learn  her  tricks  in  an 


AT  MARY'S  21 

art  school,  she  may  be  better  than  the  run  of  'em. 
She  may  do  me  good,  but,  man.  alive,"  his  voice 
caught,  "  what  earthly  good  can  I  do  her?  " 

Burroughs  stared  across  the  table  at  Keating  as 
if  he  had  never  seen  him  till  that  moment.  "  But, 
Keating,"  he  spoke  carefully,  "  you  are  taking  Miss 
Garth  rather  seriously,  don't  you  think?  I  confess, 
I  don't  altogether  follow  you." 

"You  don't  want  to  follow  me!"  declared  Keat- 
ing angrily.  "  I  mean,"  and  he  bent  across  the  ta- 
ble and  spoke  almost  brutally,  "  that  I  am  more  than 
half  in  love  with  the  girl.  And  as  I  have  been  in 
love  with  a  good  many  in  the  same  way  before  —  " 
He  broke  off  suddenly  with  a  look  of  self-disgust. 
"  If  I  go  down  there  and  see  her,  I  shall  not  be  able 
to  stay  back  —  in  my  class!  I  am  as  good  as  she 
is,  and  I  know  a  great  deal  more,  but  I  am  not  of 
her  class.  And  the  humiliation  of  finding  it  out 
every  day  through  some  idiotic  awkwardness  on  my 
part  will  do  my  painting  no  good.  It  is  unfair,  it 
makes  me  hate  and  rage,  but  I  can't  beat  it.  We 
have  a  great  deal  too  much  in  common  —  Miss 
Garth  and  I.  We've  got  to  have  all  the  rest,  to  keep 
us  out  of  disaster.  It  took  more  than  the  question 
of  class  between  us  on  ship-board  to  keep  us  from 
finding  that  out.  It  gets  into  the  very  air!  But 
two  ways  of  living  could  not  have  less  in  common 
than  our  two  ways.  You  don't  realise  these  things 
because  you  don't  have  to.  I  mean  the  little  things, 


22  FAME-SEEKERS 

Burroughs ;  the  habits,  the  nonsense,  the  tricks.  I'm 
not  quite  the  same  fool  that  ran  away  from  my 
father's  farm.  I  know  now  that  habits,  and  non- 
sense, and  tricks  matter  very  much  indeed.  Do  you 
suppose  that  an  elephant  likes  having  a  talent?  Do 
you  suppose  that  when  I'm  invited  to  tea  I  like  feel- 
ing as  if  all  the  small  bric-a-brac  had  been  put  away 
and  the  furniture  covered  for  the  occasion?  It's 
fierce  being  an  occasion.  I'm  poor,  and,  so  far  as 
I  can  see,  there  is  nothing  ahead  of  me  but  more 
poverty.  I  dare  not  count  upon  success  at  all,  for 
this  same  clumsiness  will  probably  defeat  me.  I 
can't  afford  to  know  women  like  Miss  Garth,  and," 
he  brought  his  open  hand  down  upon  the  cloth  with  a 
force  that  set  the  glasses  to  jangling,  "  I  have,  first 
and  last,  my  work  to  do!  It  has  cost  me  a  good 
deal  more  than  money  to  come  this  far  with  it,  and 
ever  since  I  started  in  at  St.  Louis  I've  had  humilia- 
tion from  girls  like  this  one.  And,  understand  me, 
Burroughs:  no  matter  how  much  I  cared  for  a 
woman,  or  how  much  she  cared  for  me,  if  she  got  in 
the  way  of  the  work  I'd  put  her  out !  "  He  laughed 
unevenly  and  dropped  his  burnt-out  cigarette  beside 
his  coffee-cup.  "  I  have  done  my  best  to  keep  away, 
to  keep  out  of  it.  You  don't  understand,  because 
you  have  your  life  aside  from  your  painting.  Why, 
Burroughs,  look  at  the  way  you  can  play,  can  read 
music !  You  have  a  skill  in  music  that  I  can't  learn 
in  my  paint,  and  you  don't  care  anything  about  it. 


AT  MARY'S  23 

You  were  born  into  something,  and  I  —  "he  laughed 
a  little,  "  I  was  born  outside  of  everything,  even  my 
own  class,  for  I'm  spoilt  for  even  that  with  this 
beastly  wanting  to  do  something.  I'm  tainted, 
every  way  I  turn.  With  a  girl  like  that  you  can 
take  your  ground  for  granted:  you've  got  families, 
and  homes,  and  habits,  and  you've  got  your 
money.  You  are  a  sophisticated  pair,  and  I  envy 
you  to  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  Do  you  think  I 
like  feeling  like  that?  It's  nobody's  fault.  But  I 
know  that  work  is  my  only  way  and  that  I've  got 
to  keep  the  way  swept  mighty  clean  of  rich  and  cul- 
tured women,  and  their  clever  experimenting  upon 
the  heart  of  the  elephant.  I  know  it  better  than 
ever.  But  you  won't  let  me  be.  You  have  all  fairly 
hounded  me,  as  you  say,  for  almost  ten  weeks.  I 
imagine  that  I  know  the  length  of  time,  inch  for 
inch,  even  better  than  you  or  Miss  Garth." 

"  I  understand  you,  Keating ;  and  I  can  see  what 
you  mean,  and  I'm  not  sure  you  aren't  right.  But 
the  question  is,  aren't  you  taking  Miss  Garth  a 
good  deal  for  granted?  " 

"  I  am  not  taking  her  for  granted !  I  know  her 
better  than  you  do.  What  has  chattering  with 
a  woman  got  to  do  with  what  a  man  knows  about 
her  ?  "  Keating  was  flushed  and  brusque.  "  It's 
one  of  the  smart  tricks  of  the  {  first-cabin '  world 
to  pretend  that  sort  of  superiority  and  all  the  time 
to  be  edging  up  experimentally  to)  some  danger. 


You  drag  me  down  to  their  place  and  I'll  prove  it 
to  you.  I  won't  be  able  to  help  myself !  "  He  laughed 
miserably.  "  Let's  get  out  of  here.  The  air  is 
vile!" 

Keating  rose  from  the  table  and  came  out  of  his 
corner.  He  went  to  Mary  at  her  desk  and  recited 
to  her  the  list  of  what  he  had  eaten  for  his  dinner, 
and  she  wrote  it,  item  for  item,  under  his  name  in 
the  ledger.  She  scarcely  glanced  at  him.  She  was 
not  in  the  least  upon  his  mind,  and  she  knew  it. 
It  was  the  busy  hour.  The  sinister  little  flags  were 
all  put  away.  Burroughs,  looking  on,  gathered  the 
curious  fact  that  favours  from  Mary  gave  Keating 
no  humiliation.  She'd  been  mothered  and  nour- 
ished on  some  equivalent  to  Keating's  prairies,  and 
that  made  all  of  the  difference!  It  was  usually 
Burroughs'  part  to  lead  the  way,  but  to-night  he 
followed  Keating  out  into  the  rain. 

They  walked  along  in  silence  with  a  kind  of  ab- 
stracted drunken  care,  over  the  pavements,  reflected 
light  and  water  rilling,  theatrical  little  dangers,  all 
about  them.  Two  girls  came  out  of  a  restaurant,  its 
windows  revealing  by  clock  and  mural  sign,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  coiffure  of  the  person  at  the  desk,  a 
tendency  to  cling  to  Louis  Quinze. 

"  Why,  hello ! "  sang  out  the  two  faces,  one  fresh, 
the  other  tired,  gleaming  in  the  wet  night  under  hat 
brim  and  umbrella. 

"Want  to  come  home  with  us?"  sang  the  fresh 


AT  MARY'S  25 

voice.  "  Nice  fire,  cushions,  cigarettes,  and  some- 
thing fizzy,"  added  the  tired  voice. 

The  two  men  slipped  by  in  the  darkness,  casual, 
polite  and  indifferent. 

"  It's  all  hellish,  isn't  it?  "  Keating  muttered. 

"  For  them,"  Burroughs  conceded. 

"  Well,  anyway,"  grumbled  Keating,  "  they  think 
they're  square  as  square !  " 

"  Who  doesn't?  "  Burroughs  laughed,  but  an  imp- 
ish gust  of  wind  lifted  and  tossed  his  hat  and  broke 
his  laugh.  "  I'm  sorry  for  them,"  he  added,  "  but 
they'd  be  the  last  to  see  why." 


CHAPTER  in 

BLACK    COFFEE 

"  You  know,  Nat,"  >and  Louisa  Garth  put  on  the 
air  of  a  young  woman  at  half-truth-telling,  "  I  ac- 
tually have  stage-fright  over  meeting  this  odd,  re- 
luctant person.  So  much  has  been  made  of 
nothing  —  or  of  next  to  nothing  —  "  she  laughed, 
"  that  no  room  is  left  for  manners." 

Nathalie  Corson  opened  her  eyes  wide  to  deluge 
Louisa  with  amused  unbelief.  "  I  hope  it's  true, 
for  fright,  if  anything,  will  make  a  man  of  you,  my 
dear  girl!" 

They  were  having  coffee  in  an  alcove,  roofed  over 
by  a  balcony  that  crossed  one  end  of  the  studio. 
Louisa  sat  near  the  lamp,  her  arms  folded  upon  the 
polished  table,  and  Nathalie  was  stretched  full-length 
upon  a  couch  that  ran  along  the  wall. 

Nathalie  Corson  was  small,  dark,  round,  gay  and 
easy-going  —  something  of  the  gladness  of  the  well- 
scrubbed  boy  about  her.  Her  mouth  was  red  and 
fully  modelled,  her  eyes  were  very  dark  and  clear, 
and  were  finely  circled  by  a  bluish  tone  that  ran 
through  the  shadows  of  her  hair.  She  had  a  quan- 
tity of  long,  fine  black  hair  and  she  wore  it  wound 

M 


BLACK  COFFEE  27 

about  her  head  and  across  her  forehead  in  a  great 
flat  braid. 

"  You  look  disgracefully  tired,  Louisa,"  Nathalie 
told  her. 

Louisa  lifted  her  head  and  looked  attentively  at 
herself  in  the  mirror  above  the  couch.  "  I'm  more 
muddled  than  tired,"  she  smiled  self-accusingly. 

"  Divert  yourself  with  that  sort  of  play-acting 
if  you  like,  but  don't  count  upon  my  being  taken  in ! 
You  and  Keating  will  get  on  like  anything  if  you'll 
only  take  one  another  like  a  pair  of  human  beings. 
He's  more  afraid  of  you  than  you  were  ever  afraid, 
even  in  a  bad  dream.  My  sympathy  is  all  for  Keat- 
ing. You  are  a  trial  to  men,  anyway,  Louisa;  you 
mix  'em  all  up.  Of  course,  I  don't  mean  to  stand 
for  the  way  Keating  has  sulked,  and  just  because 
he  got  caught  in  mischief.  I  even  confess  that  if  I 
were  a  Keating,  and  I'd  had  to  cross  in  the  steerage, 
and  something  slim  and  Italian  in  a  pretty  shawl 
had  given  me  the  chance,  I'd  have  flirted,  too.  I 
can't  see  why  he  keeps  on  simmering  over  it,  I'm 
sure.  It's  really  awfully  funny." 

"  Funny  ? "  Louisa  ruminated.  "  It  was  not 
funny,  Nat.  It  was  harder  on  me  than  it  was  on 
Mr.  Keating.  To  condescend  and  retreat  by  one 
stairway  in  less  than  three  minutes  is  the  sort  of 
thing  that  brings  wrinkles.  I  shall  never  get  my- 
self in  for  that  again !  " 

"  Too  bad,"  laughed  Nathalie.     "  Enough  of  the 


28  FAME-SEEKERS 

same  sort  of  thing  and  you'd  be  a  pretty  good  sort." 

Louisa  smiled  absently.  "  Nat,  why  is  it  that  I 
was  only  too  happy  to  go  down  to  the  steerage  to 
meet  a  man  —  even  quarrelled  with  my  sister  to 
accomplish  it  —  but  the  mere  thought  of  contact 
with  a  girl  from  the  steerage  gave  me  nerves,  and 
annoyed  me?  " 

Nathalie  laughed  and  made  herself  more  comfort- 
able. "  That,  dear  infant,  is  only  to  be  answered 
by  the  illuminating  fact  that  while  Keating  was  en- 
chanted to  play  with  a  girl  in  the  steerage  he'd  never 
have  thought  of  talking  with  her  brother." 

"  But,  that's  —  sickening,  Nat." 

"  Is  it?  I've  never  been  able  to  decide.  It 
doesn't  worry  me  a  bit.  I  wouldn't  have  bothered 
my  head  with  either  the  girl  or  her  brother,  and  I'm 
glad  I'm  not  a  Keating,  or  any  other  kind  of  a  man, 
so,"  she  sat  up  and  punched  a  cushion  or  two,  "  I 
just  put  the  whole  everlasting  question  on  the  shelf 
with  the  other  everlasting  things  that  aren't  any  of 
my  business,  and  I  hope  they'll  be  at  peace  with  the 
dust  they  gather ! " 

"  Wisest  of  Nathalie's ! "  Louisa  considered  her. 

"  Wise  ?  It's  worse  than  wise.  It's  self-preser- 
vation," declared  Nathalie,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
gleam  the  lamp-light  drew  from  her  shoe-buckles. 

"  I  seem  to  know  less  and  less  every  day  just  how 
much  of  a  man's  life  is  —  *  any  of  a  woman's  busi- 
ness,' "  said  Louisa. 


BLACK  COFFEE  29 

"  Glory,  but  you  are  glum !  Be  serious  if  you 
like.  It's  a  good  thing  to  be.  I'm  serious,"  Natha- 
lie laughed.  "  But  be  serious  about  all  things,  ex- 
cept men.  I  know,  'Wisa,  because  I've  tried.  I'm 
twenty-seven  now  and  three  solemn  times  have  I 
been  serious  about  men.  By  the  regular  and  ener- 
getic application  of  ethical  massage  I  have  succeeded 
in  getting  rid  of  the  scars  and  wrinkles  they  gave  me, 
and  I  still  have  my  sense  of  humour  intact.  I'm  not 
boasting,  mind  you,  and  I've  got  my  fingers  crossed 
all  the  time,  but  I'm  hopeftd."  When  Nathalie  was 
amused,  or  stirred,  her  voice,  or  laugh,  had  a  way 
of  breaking  softly.  "  The  thing  is  to  work,  do 
something  for  just  as  many  hours  of  the  day  as 
you  possibly  can  sit  up,  then  you  at  least  won't  fall 
in  love  just  for  something  to  do.  There  is  nothing 
I  fear  as  I  do  myself  leading  a  lazy,  good-for-noth- 
ing life." 

"  You  have  really  been  in  love,  Nat?  "  and  Louisa 
was  absorbed  and  earnest  above  impertinence. 

Nathalie  lifted  herself  and  solemnly  considered 
Louisa.  Her  mouth  twitched  and  her  eyes  shone  in 
the  lamp-light.  "  I  was  nine  years  old  the  first 
time;  he  was  eleven.  Of  course,  there  had  been  flir- 
tations before  that,  but  nothing  that  really  mattered. 
He  was  shy  and  I  wasn't.  I  don't  know  what  has 
become  of  him.  The  second  time  I  was  sixteen. 
That  lasted  through  three  summers,  then  he  liked 
somebody  else  better  and  sent  me  about  my  prac- 


30  FAME-SEEKERS 

tising  in  something  like  earnest.  How  I  suffered! 
I  was  twenty-two  the  last  time,  and  he  was  old- 
fashioned.  I  was  like  some  fever  to  him  that  he 
knew  he'd  '  catch '  if  he  came  near  me.  He  stayed 
away.  He  died  of  some  other  fever  two  years  ago. 
I  have  earned  my  sense  of  humour,  you  see,  for  — 
I've  been  in  love  three  times,  but  no  man  has  ever 
been  in  love  with  me!  I've  had  an  education,  but 
have  taken  no  prizes."  She  went  back  to  her  place 
among  the  cushions  and  lay  staring  out  into  the 
shadowy  studio.  "  The  last  two  years  I  have  really 
worked.  I've  been  here  night  and  day,  and  it  has 
been  fine,  though  there  were  times  when  loneliness  ate 
me  up.  Sometimes  I've  just  cried  of  a  longing  for 
that  sweet,  dull  place  called  home.  I  haven't  got  a 
home  any  more  and  the  longing  is  as  absurd  as  it  is 
inevitable.  I've  fiddled  and  fiddled,  till  I  could  think 
of  the  arm-ache  instead  of  the  heart-ache.  When 
it  is  a  question  now  of  some  new  man  upon  the  scene 
I  give  myself  a  look-at  in  the  mirror  with  the  full 
light  of  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  upon  me.  Men 
are  fine  and,  having  loved  one  or  two  of  them  is 
good,  but  if  there's  work  to  do  the  only  way  is  to 
cut  'em  out." 

"  I  didn't  know,  Nat,"  said  Louisa. 

Nathalie  turned  her  head  and  gave  Louisa  a  curi- 
ous smile.  "  You  don't  know  now.  7  am  sound  as 
can  be.  All  the  three  men  are  dead  as  door-nails 
and  I'm  not  mourning  for  a  single  one  of  'em.  That 


BLACK  COFFEE  31 

I  did  care  doesn't  bother  me.  It's  that  I  sometimes 
want  to.  A  woman's  only  half  a  creature,  and 
that's  the  truth  about  her,  and  — "  she  laughed 
again,  "  it's  sorl;  of  awkward  doing  a  whole  job 
when  you  are  only  half  a  creature  and  not  a  man  at 
all.  I  think,"  she  shot  Louisa  a  glance,  "  it  would 
be  a  mighty  good  thing  if  you  were  to  fall  in  love. 
No  matter  who  the  man,  just  so  you  fall  hard 
enough.  It's  made  me  heaps  nicer.  I  can  even  tell 
it  myself.  As  to  this  eternal  question  of  Keating, 
and  his  sulks  and  your  stage-fright  —  anyway  it's 
not  you  I'm  sorry  for,  but  I  could  cry  over  poor  old 
shabby  Keating.  Heigho ! "  she  slipped  back  on 
the  couch,  "  it  is  comfy  here !  I'd  purr  if  I  knew 
how.  You  have  made  the  old  studio  over  into  a 
wonderful  place,  Louisa.  I  couldn't  have  imagined 
anything  better.  It  must  be  wonderful  to  be  rich: 
—  when  you  see  a  fine  chair,  or  want  a  new  piano,  or 
anything,  to  just  drop  in  and  buy  it.  It  is  I  who 
have  profited  by  your  coming.  You've  made  me 
feel  like  a  Cinderella." 

"  Dear  child  alive,"  and  Louisa  smiled  back  at 
her,  "  I  don't  care  for  the  chairs,  and  curtains,  and 
carpets.  I  love  the  blessed  space,  and  air,  and  the 
peace  of  it !  " 

"  It  is  glorious,"  agreed  Nathalie  happily.  "  But 
give  me  chairs  and  curtains  and  carpets  along  with 
my  *  space  and  air  and  peace '  !  Aren't  you  going 
to  dress,  Louisa?  "  she  asked  suddenly. 


32  FAME  SEEKERS 

"  Oh,  yes,"  sighed  Louisa.  "  I  must  go  and  dress 
up  to  my  part." 

"  Poor  Keating !  "  smiled  Nathalie. 

Louisa  had  chosen  the  balcony-room  for  her  own 
and  she  moved  indolently  towards  the  little  spiral 
stairway  that  pierced  a  corner  of  the  alcove  ceiling. 
"  It  may  interest  you  to  know  that  I  have  been  over 
to  see  the  book-binders,  and  that  I  begin  work  on 
Tuesday,"  she  said,  sitting  a  moment  on  the  first 
step  of  the  stairs. 

"  Bravo ! "  and  Nathalie  sat  up,  her  voice  break- 
ing all  to  pieces  with  enthusiasm.  "  I  am  so  glad ! 
Now,  my  dear  girl,  if  you  will  only  come  in  at  a  de- 
cent hour  I'll  regard  you  as  a  desirable  human  com- 
panion. Really,  you  should  not  stay  out  unneces- 
sarily late  in  this  quarter.  I  don't  do  it  myself, 
when  I  can  avoid  it." 

"  As  for  that,"  Louisa  looked  stubborn,  "  you  see 
I've  never  known  anything  but  the  Ritz  and 
boarding-schools.  And  now  there  are  the  side- 
streets  and  the  river  to  be  discovered.  The  river ! 
There  is  nothing  like  the  Seine  slipping  through 
Paris.  AncT  it  is  so  wonderful  in  the  dusk,  Natha- 
lie!" 

"  Oh,  dear,  I  do  know,"  Nathalie  sighed.  "  I 
was  like  that,  too,  my  first  free  year  over  here. 
But,  mark  me,  it's  just  by  the  mood  for  river,  side- 
streets  and  dusk  that  you'll  walk  off  the  edge  of 
things  into  the  state  of  being  in  love.  Go  your  own 


BLACK  COFFEE  33 

way;  you  will,  anyway.  Only  don't  expect  me  to 
worry  about  you.  I  haven't  got  time.  You'll  have 
no  use  for  me,  anyway,  until  the  breaking's  over  and 
you  want  to  be  mended.  Go  along  and  dress! 
They'll  be  coming  any  minute." 

"  You  think  they'll  come  ?  "  Louisa  queried,  half 
way  up  the  stairs. 

"  I  don't  know.     I  shan't  move  till  they  do ! " 

Louisa  stood  in  the  balcony  looking  down  over 
the  rail  into  the  studio.  Above  her  head  the  rain 
was  pelting  on  the  great  skylight,  and  the  glass  of 
the  north  window  opposite  was  rilled  and  blurred 
with  the  downpour.  The  curtains  were  all  drawn 
back  and  the  big,  high  room  was  filled  with  the 
pearly  night  light,  the  lamp-light  from  the  alcove 
catching  warmly  upon  the  polished  black  surface 
of  Nathalie's  piano,  giving  reason  to  the  place. 
Just  at  that  moment  Keating  and  Burroughs  were 
wading  among  the  cabs  and  cars  at  the  crossing  of 
the  Boulevards  a  few  blocks  away.  Louisa,  watch- 
ing the  rain,  wondered  where  they  were.  "  He'll 
not  come,  I  know,"  she  thought,  "  but  it  won't  be 
the  rain  that  will  keep  him  away." 

Louisa  dressed  absently,  scarcely  looking  at  her- 
self in  the  glass  even.  Then  she  sat  on  a  stiff  chintz- 
covered  chair  in  a  corner  of  the  little  badly  lighted 
bedroom  and  stared  before  her,  her  fingers  nervously 
trailing  over  her  scarf  nearly  tearing  the  frail  stuff 
when  the  bell  j  ingled  in  the  hall  below. 


CHAPTER  IV 

INTO    THE   RUE    FALGUIERE 

As  the  two  men  walked  down  the  Boulevard 
through  the  night,  and  the  rain,  Burroughs  stole  a 
glance  at  Keating.  The  man  from  the  prairies  had 
given  him  his  glimpse  into  the  troubled  spaces,  had 
let  him  realise  how  life  may,  or  may  not  be,  com- 
fortable, and  the  rain  and  the  shifting  lights  of  the 
city  night  helped  to  drive  home  the  baffling  lesson. 
"  I'll  come  around  to  your  place  to-morrow,  Keat- 
ing, and  help  you  put  things  in  order,"  he  broke  the 
heavy  silence.  "  You'll  feel  more  like  work  with 
your  curtains  up  and  the  stove  going." 

"  The  curtains  are  up,"  said  Keating.  "  I  got 
'em  from  the  other  poor  devil  who  has  just  moved 
out.  He  said  he  could  better  afford  to  trust  me 
for  their  value  than  to  pay  for  having  the  stuff 
moved  out.  The  artist  can  wait.  The  other  fel- 
low, the  man  at  the  hand-cart,  never  can !  " 

They  bent  together  to  meet  the  slanting  force  of 
a  fresh  downpour.  It  caught  them  as  they  were 
threading  their  way  through  the  tangle  of  trams, 
buses  and  autos  in  the  great  open  space  before  the 
Montparnasse  station.  They  emerged  from  the  rain 

34 


INTO  THE  RUE  FALGUIERE  35 

and  the  tangle  the  other  side  of  the  station  into 
a  new  quarter  where  the  dominance  of  the  foreigner 
was  at  an  end  and  the  face  of  things  was  French 
again.  As  they  moved  along  Keating,  of  changing 
mood,  held  himself  straighter  and  began  to  hum. 
Burroughs  knew  how  the  boy  in  him  was  laughing 
out  of  his  eyes  in  the  dark,  the  hurt  man  sent  back 
for  a  while. 

"  By  Jove,  Keating,  I'm  happy  to  see  you  in  a 
good  humour  again,  but  would  you  mind  singing 
something  else?  The  world  still  believes  in  the 
Ninth  Symphony  as  it  was  written,  you  know." 

Without  comment,  almost  without  pause,  Keating 
swung  away  into  a  negro  chant;  something  he  had 
kept  from  the  fields  on  his  father's  farm. 

"  You  do  that  better,"  declared  Burroughs  thank- 
fully. "  And,  Keating,  before  we  go  down  there  to- 
night I  want  to  say  just  one  thing.  You  don't 
quite  realise  that  people  who  have  money,  and  all 
that  money  means,  may  care,  and  very  sincerely,  to 
be  something,  to  do  something.  As  to  Miss  Garth, 
I  know  that  she  cares.  I  was  a  witness  of  her  ar- 
rival, with  her  sister,  Mrs.  Gleason,  in  the  Rue  Fal- 
guiere.  I  saw  scenes  and  heard  her  defend  herself. 
Her  sister,  Keating,  is  one  of  the  most  hopeless  and 
conventional  of  prigs,  and  she  has,  oddly,  exactly 
your  view  of  what  Miss  Garth  ought,  and  ought  not, 
to  do.  She's  worse  than  a  prig,  for  she  actually 
doesn't  realise  that  there  can  be  two  sides  to  a  ques- 


36  FAME-SEEKERS 

tion.  Mrs.  Gleason,  as  a  human  being,  would  fill 
you  with  revolt  and  horror  —  and  you  and  she 
think  out  the  poor  girl  together  and  to  the  same 
end!  There's  something  wrong  with  your  sharing 
of  views,  isn't  there?  In  fact,  Keating,  I'm  just 
about  sure  that  the  rich  and  cultured  man  or  woman 
has  about  as  much  trouble  to  arrive,  from  the  other 
way  around,  as  does  the  poor  man  or  woman.  She 
has  to  make  good  with  the  professional  snob.  The 
professional  snob  is  worse,  as  propositions  go,  than 
the  money-snob,  for  the  man  who  lives  by  thinking 
ought  to  know  better.  Left  about  face ! "  he  com- 
manded with  a  happy  veer  to  gaiety.  "  Man,  your 
hat  off!  Behold  the  Rue  Falguiere! " 

All  at  once  Keating  began  to  laugh :  a  big,  noisy, 
boyish  laugh  that  told  how  something  had  hit  home. 
"  Well,  Miss  Garth  seems  to  have  successfully  made 
her  way  clear  down  to  the  steerage  this  time !  "  He 
glanced  keenly  ahead  at  the  two  rows  of  sordid  lit- 
tle shops,  a  river  of  mud  between  and  heaven  only 
knew  what  of  struggling  humanity  behind  their 
looming  walls;  walls  that  masked,  night  and 
day,  the  sluggish  life  and  thought  of  the  shop- 
keepers and  their  kind.  Wares  and  their  owners 
were  spilling  over  onto  the  sidewalks,  making  it  dif- 
ficult to  move  along,  idlers  and  working-people  jos- 
tling one  another  none  too  gently  for  a  slippery 
footing.  "  Is  it  just  more  condescension,  or  does 
she  really  like  it  ?  "  he  demanded  with  another  laugh. 


INTO  THE  RUE  FALGUIERE  37 

Without  comment  Burroughs  took  him  by  the  arm 
and  turned  him  aside  through  a  great  iron  gateway 
over  which  was  blazoned  in  white  enamel :  "  Villa 
Gabriel." 

Keating  stepped  out  from  Burroughs'  umbrella 
to  have  a  look  about.  "  What  is  the  place?  A  new 
Arabian  Nights?  "  he  queried. 

Gusts  of  teasing  wind  and  rain  swept  down  upon 
them.  It  was  as  if  they'd  fallen  into  some  vast  well 
of  house-walls.  The  water,  at  flood,  and  rushing 
in  the  gutters  at  the  edges  of  the  cobbled  court, 
caught  and  played  with  what  light  there  was,  add- 
ing its  silly  dangers  to  the  effect  of  depths  and  un- 
certainty, and  over  and  through  it  all  the  big  rain- 
drops pattered  their  fugue  upon  the  studio  win- 
dows that  patterned  the  north  walls  from  top  to  bot- 
tom of  the  well.  Lights  burnt  behind  many  of  the 
windows,  here  and  there  the  wavering  shadow  of  a 
man  or  woman  showing  upon  a  glimpse  of  inner- 
wall  or  curtain.  In  one  window  without  curtains 
stood  a  plaster  cast  of  a  man  drawing  a  bow,  and 
back  of  the  tall  figure  ladders  and  scaffolding,  and 
mysterious  masses  of  drapery,  made  spots  and  lines 
across  the  lamp-light. 

"  What  a  place !  "  Keating  commented. 

"  By  night,"  admitted  Burroughs,  "  it  is  about 
as  dramatic  as  other  studio  walls  and  windows." 

"  Windows  and  owls'-eyes  only  wise  by  night  ?  " 
Keating  chuckled.  With  an  unprintable  comment 


88  FAME-SEEKERS 

he  jumped  a  pool  of  water  lying  like  a  trap  in  the 
dark.  "  I  can't  quite  imagine  Miss  Garth  jumping 
puddles  in  her  fine  clothes !  "  he  remarked. 

Burroughs  answered  with  a  monosyllable  and  led 
the  way  down  to  a  turn  in  the  court. 

"  I  suppose,"  Keating  went  on  cynically,  "  that 
it  is  only  a  variety  of  the  slumming  instinct  which 
brings  decent  girls  into  such  places  to  live.  Or  is 
she  going  to  devote  her  fortune  to  rebuilding  the 
place  with  bath-tubs  and  a  co-operative  restaurant? 
In  that  case,"  he  gave  in  to  amusement  again, 
"  they'll  have  plenty  of  running  water  to  begin 
with!" 

At  that  moment  a  young  creature  came  hurrying 
down  a  stairway  —  there  were  at  least  a  dozen 
stairways  giving  upon  the  place,  and  marked  in  the 
eternal  white  enamel  which  shines  so  curiously  clear 
in  the  darkest  night  —  out  into  the  court,  and  full- 
tilt  into  Keating.  She  had  a  vivid  face,  as  gleam- 
ing as  the  letter  over  the  door,  and  she  was  frowsy, 
and  she  responded  none  too  gently  to  Keating's 
flustered  apology ;  then,  with  a  lawless  laugh,  she  was 
off  like  a  rag  on  the  wind. 

Keating  turned  about  slowly  and  stared  into  the 
night  in  the  direction  the  girl  had  gone.  Burroughs 
stood  waiting  for  him  in  the  door  of  another  stair- 
way. Though  they  had  neither  of  them  voiced  it, 
the  nearness  of  Louisa  and  Nathalie,  in  their  studio 
above,  had  brought  disquiet  back.  The  wind  and 


INTO  THE  RUE  FALGUIERE  39 

rain  died  down  for  a  moment  and  the  night  grew 
uncomfortably  still.  "  Are  you  coming,  Keating?  " 

Keating  did  not  move,  did  not  answer. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  Burroughs  de- 
manded impatiently.  "  Was  that  girl  some  long- 
lost  acquaintance?" 

Keating  faced  about  and  came  to  the  doorstep. 
He  looked  into  the  hallway  where  a  befogged  oil 
lamp  was  doing  its  dull  best  to  live  up  to  the  leases 
which  read  "  stairways  lighted"  "  I  am  not  going 
in,"  he  declared  doggedly. 

"  You  are  not  going  in  ?  "  Burroughs  echoed. 

Keating  came  to  the  doorstep  and  Burroughs 
turned  about  to  stare  down  upon  him,  to  understand 
him.  A  long,  slim  black  cat  slipped  along  the  wall, 
down  the  stairway  and  past  Burroughs.  Keating 
lifted  it,  deftly  and  gently,  upon  his  foot  and  helped 
it  a  little  upon  its  way,  the  cat  stealing  a  caress, 
after  the  canny  manner  of  cats,  out  of  insult  and 
injury.  He  took  off  his  hat  and  peered  upward  into 
Burroughs'  face,  and  a  smile  which  was  somehow 
disconcerting  to  the  man  above  him  crossed  his 
mouth,  though  his  eyes  were  stubborn  enough.  It 
was  as  if  life  had  slipped  up  and  written  something 
new  upon  Keating's  face  while  he  had  been  passing 
from  the  light  of  one  lamp  to  another.  "  No,"  he 
repeated,  "  I  am  not  going  in." 

"  Why  not,  Keating? "  and  Burroughs  visibly 
held  down  an  outraged  temper. 


40  FAME-SEEKERS 

"  No  need  of  going  over  all  that  again,  is  there? 
I  have  had  enough.  I  don't  like  it  down  here.  This 
court  and  the  Rue  Falguiere  have  been  my  wet 
blankets.  I'm  in  a  bad  humour,  and  if  I  went  in- 
side I'd  probably  break  the  crockery.  Give  me  a 
cigarette,  Burroughs,  and  let  me  off ! "  He 
laughed  and  held  out  his  hand  and  Burroughs  slowly 
got  out  his  silver  case,  opened  it  and  held  it  towards 
Keating. 

"  And  what  excuse  am  I  to  make  to  Miss  Corson?  " 
Burroughs  demanded,  watching  Keating  as  he  took 
the  lamp  off  its  rickety  stand  and  lighted  a  cigarette 
over  the  dusty  chimney. 

Keating  raised  his  eyes  and  grinned  across 
the  murky  light.  "  Why  go  on  troubling  yourself 
with  excuses?  There  aren't  any.  Tell  her  the 
truth  — "  if  you  have  the  courage.  She  won't  mind 
it.  Tell  her  that  if  she  were  living  alone  I'd  have 
come  with  pleasure.  Good-night,"  he  said  with  a 
laugh  almost  as  high-keyed  and  lawless  as  had  been 
the  girl's  of  the  moment  just  by,  then  he  vanished 
into  the  dark,  even  as  she  had  vanished. 


CHAPTER  V 

WOMEN    WHOM    MEN    DO    NOT    FEAR 

BUREOUGHS  climbed  the  draughty  stairs  thinking 
over  their  absurd  polish  in  the  general  murkiness. 
He  was  in  a  womanish  humour,  sensitive  to  inanimate 
paradox,  toiling  upward  through  the  scene  a  little 
tired  of  aimless  seeing,  feeling  and  living.  At  least 
Keating,  though  out  in  the  cold  and  the  rain,  was 
getting  an  emotion  out  of  his  very  vagrancy! 

Nathalie  met  Burroughs  at  the  studio  door. 
"  And  Keating?  "  she  asked,  giving  him  her  hand. 
"  He  is  not  coming?  " 

"  Bolted  at  the  frontier,"  said  Burroughs. 

They  stood  by  the  piano  and  Burroughs  looked 
about  for  Louisa.  Nathalie  made  a  gesture  to- 
wards the  balcony,  then  in  a  low  tone  he  told  her  of 
Keating's  surrender,  and  of  his  retreat. 

"  Well,"  Nathalie  smiled,  "  I've  always  had  a  kind 
of  haunted  admiration  for  suicides  and  bolters. 
They  have  their  own  desperate  sort  of  courage. 
I'd  die  of  the  fear  of  running  away,  and  if  that's 
not  suicide  I  don't  know  what  is."  Her  dark  eyes 
fixed  on  the  rain-blurred  window,  her  round  arms 
folded  and  rested  on  the  piano.  "  You  see,  it's 
just  a  question  of  veneer.  If  Louisa'd  but  been 

41 


42  FAME-SEEKERS 

dowdy  she  might  have  gone  from  end  to  end  of  that 
miserable  boat  without  annoying  anybody.  Keat- 
ing would  never  have  dreamed  of  taking  the  trouble 
to  sulk  for  a  dowdy  Louisa  Garth.  He'd  have  taken 
her  for  granted,  as  he'd  take  rain  or  shine,  as  he 
took  that  wretched  little  Italian  in  hoop  earrings 
and  a  grey  shawl,  or,"  she  sighed  comically,  "  as  he 
has  always  taken  me !  " 

"  Keating  really  wants  to  see  you,  Nathalie,"  said 
Burroughs.  "  Even  Keating  hasn't  any  doubts 
about  that." 

"  I  know,"  she  agreed  frankly.  "  My  dear  Bur- 
roughs "  (Nathalie  always  spoke  in  the  mannish 
way,  and  no  man  had  ever  been  known  to  mind,  or 
find  her  brazen)  "  it's  a  truly  doleful  thing  to  be  a 
woman  whom  men  do  not  fear.  There  isn't  an- 
other mixed  joy  like  it.  I  know  perfectly 
well  that  if  I  were  living  here  alone  nothing  would 
or  could  keep  Keating  away,  and  he'd  be  as  bliss- 
fully without  thought  of  Grundy-eyes  from  upper 
windows  as  he'd  be  of  the  value  of  my  time.  The 
place  was  very  comfy,  even  before  Louisa  came  to 
dress  it  up  with  affluent  velvet  and  easy  chairs.  One 
of  the  prevailing  traits  of  Americans  of  Keating's 
bringing  up  —  or,  growing  up  —  is  to  take  all  that 
they  can  get  of  the  time  and  the  comforts  of  the 
women  whom  they  do  not  fear.  And  they  don't 
mean  anything  by  it,  but  a  very  generous  sharing 
of  their  own  absorbing  society.  Me  and  my  un- 


WOMEN  WHOM  MEN  DO  NOT  FEAR     43 

speakable  charms  (that  is  to  say,  the  shell  and  the 
look  of  me)  for  your  arm-chairs  and  your  precious 
time.  Of  course,  it  is  meant  for  praise,  but  how  it 
does  faintly  damn  us !  Of  course,"  and  Nathalie 
crossed  her  hands  in  a  manner  self-accusing,  "  we'd 
rather  have  them  come  in  all  their  joy-blurred,  un- 
afraid egotism  than  not  to  have  them  come  at  all. 
We  know  our  place ;  but  a  woman's  a  woman  in  spite 
of  her  profile.  What  Keating  fears  in  Louisa  is 
just  clothes.  If  Louisa  could  only  learn  fear  of  her 
clothes  something  might  be  accomplished ! " 

"  Why  don't  you  hunt  Keating  out  and  dress 
him  down?"  suggested  Burroughs.  "He'd  take  it 
from  you,  if  you  went  about  it  in  your  own  funny 
way.  He's  passed  out  of  my  hands." 

"  I'd  thought  of  doing  just  that,"  she  owned. 
"  But  it  isn't  —  good  enough.  It's  an  idea  that 
might  have  popped  into  any  woman's  head,  and  I 
have  a  natural  distrust  of  any-  woman's  ideas." 

"  It  wouldn't  do,"  Burroughs  smiled  down  upon 
her.  "  It  would  be  merely  sending  one  peril  as  an- 
tidote for  another." 

"  That's  nice  of  you,  Burroughs.  I'm  not  often 
either  taken,  or  mistaken,  for  a  peril." 

Louisa,  charmingly  dressed,  came  quietly  down 
the  little  spiral  stairway  and  into  the  studio. 
"  Why  in  the  lonesome  dark,  you  two  ?  "  She  gave 
Burroughs  her  hand,  then  moved  about  the  big  place, 
lighting  the  candles  and  touching  the  little  silk 


44.  FAME-SEEKERS 

shades  into  order.  She  glanced  at  them  over  her 
shoulder  and  laughed.  "  So  Mr.  Keating  did  not 
come  after  all !  "  She  dropped  down  in  the  corner 
of  a  couch  and  looked  up  at  one  and  then  the  other. 

They  stood,  tongue-tied. 

"  He  would  not  come,"  said  Burroughs  bluntly. 

"  But,"  and  Louisa  drew  a  long,  heavy  scarf 
about  her  shoulders,  "  if  he  does  not  care  to  come 
why  on  earth  trouble  about  him  ?  " 

Nathalie  stood  with  her  back  to  the  light  and  for 
a  moment  her  dark  eyes  played  sharply  after  the 
truth  upon  Louisa's  face.  "  You  see,  Louisa,  Keat- 
ing is  one  of  those  men  that  one  does  trouble 
about!" 

"  Really?     Of  course  I  have  no  way  of  knowing." 

"  Oh,"  said  Nathalie,  her  voice  breaking,  "  you'll 
come  into  your  way  of  knowing,  never  fear !  " 

Louisa  looked  more  amused  than  concerned. 

Nathalie  opened  the  piano  and  got  out  her  violin 
with  a  very  business-like  air.  "  Let's  play,  Bur- 
roughs," she  challenged  him.  "  Let's  make  Rome 
burn!" 


SHE  CHALLENGED  HIM.     "LET'S  MAKE  ROME  BURN!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

AMONG    THE    BOOK-BINDERS 

DOING  something  is  an  affair  of  moods,  and  work's 
as  much  a  mood  as  play.  Nothing  worth  while  ever 
got  itself  done  without  all  the  moods  thrown  in,  and 
mere  sense  of  duty  without  its  fervent  source  of 
hope,  never  has,  or  ever  will,  set  up  a  thing  of  art. 
Louisa  Garth  was  tired  out  and  depressed,  and  one 
November  afternoon  she  sat  among  the  book- 
binders at  the  long  work-table,  and  confessed  to  her- 
self that  another  hour  in  the  place  would  be  unen- 
durable. A  small  volume  of  old  English  verse  lay 
before  her,  an  amusing  and  suggestive  little  book 
that  she  had  picked  up  in  one  of  the  stalls  along  the 
Seine.  She  had  set  out  to  rebind  it  as  she  believed 
it  deserved.  The  book  was  tattered  and  had  re- 
quired to  be  resewn,  and  Louisa's  fingers  ached. 
Wandering  among  the  real  old  book-lovers  who 
haunt  the  stalls  in  the  shadows  between  the  Institute 
and  the  Louvre  had  forced  Louisa  to  admit  the  ter- 
rifying fact  that  she  who  had  chosen  to  bind  books 
knew  next  to  nothing  about  them.  That  a  tailor 
is  not  expected  to  wear  the  clothes  he  makes  was 
scarcely  consoling.  In  the  book-binders'  work- 

45 


46  FAME-SEEKERS 

room  she  was  nobody,  the  self-same  nobody  she  had 
fled  from  in  Connecticut,  and  the  newness  of  life 
there  had  gone  as  flat  as  ever.  A  trade  is  no  toy, 
for  all  that  the  making  of  toys  is  a  trade.  Out  of 
her  faithful  first  weeks  of  trying  she'd  got  but  faint 
praise,  a  backache  and  the  bitter  first  drops  of  dis- 
enchantment. 

It  seemed  a  lifetime  since  the  mild  September 
night  when  the  boat  had  steamed  towards  Bou- 
logne, and  she  had  stood  by  Burroughs,  after  their 
happy  chance-meeting  at  sea  and  the  rapid  intimacy 
that  had  come  of  it,  watching  the  play  of  lights 
across  the  night,  the  scientific  persiflage  that  flares 
and  gleams  across  the  dark  channel  between  the  sun- 
downs and  the  dawns.  Burroughs  had  taken  her 
seriously,  and  in  the  pride  of  that  she  had  looked 
ahead  to  the  shadowy  line  of  land  and  the  big  night 
sky  with  its  stars  and  stars,  and  near  the  earth  its 
potent  flush  from  the  lights  of  towns.  She  had 
come  ashore  dazed,  and  with  a  heart  full  of  unde- 
fined belief  in  herself  and  her  chosen  world.  Her 
world  surely,  if  she  chose,  and  she  had  chosen. 
With  eyes  wide,  if  not  wise,  she  had  come  to  live  and 
breathe  in  the  symbolic  air  of  Paris.  She  had  gone 
to  work  in  the  opalescent  climate,  getting  out  of  it 
about  what  a  light  reader  gets  of  a  poem  —  the 
scent  and  use  of  the  flower  to  the  woman  who  knows 
no  gardening.  She'd  been  stirred  and  thrilled  in  all 


AMONG  THE  BOOK-BINDERS  47 

the  beginnings,  and  now  came  her  dawn  of  small 
fears. 

Nathalie  had  told  her,  in  her  gay,  off-hand  way, 
to  live  in  the  day,  to  bury  yesterday  and  ignore  to- 
morrow. But  there  are  days  and  days,  and  one 
woman's  days  are  not  necessarily  like  another's. 

The  greater  number  of  the  women,  young  or 
youngish,  working  in  the  studio  of  Monsieur  Avril 
were  Russian  or  French.  There  was  a  something 
which  dominated  the  atmosphere  of  the  place  that 
Louisa  realised  but  turned  her  eyes  away  from. 
But  suspicion,  tough-skinned  suspicion,  kept  her 
restless,  alert ;  rendered  her  timid  and  self-conscious. 
She  had  come  there  to  learn  about  book-binding,  but 
the  craft  was  as  nothing  compared  with  what  she 
was  gathering  about  life.  She  faced  it  every  day, 
but  felt  as  blind  as  in  the  beginning.  She  could  take 
in  the  facts,  but  she  could  not  accept  the  gaiety. 
The  simple  precepts  of  her  American  bringing  up 
had  irritated  her  at  home,  but  here  they  seemed, 
to  her  bewilderment,  to  be  old-fashioned  without 
even  the  dignity  of  being  downright  primitive,  and, 
dazed  and  hurt,  she  clung  to  herself  with  sadly 
shaken  faith.  Many  of  these  women  did  good  work, 
and  they  were  all  al  it  in  simple  earnest.  They 
were  fairly  well  —  and  always  interestingly  — 
dressed,  they  had  read  a  great  deal,  they  knew  pic- 
tures, they  went  constantly  to  hear  good  music,  they 


48  FAME-SEEKERS 

held  the  key,  in  short  —  and  carelessly,  as  if  to  hold 
it  were  a  matter  of  course  —  to  a  phase  of  artistic 
intimacy  from  which  she  felt  herself  more  and  more 
shut  out. 

Among  the  students  at  Avril's  was  one  woman  who 
drew  Louisa  more  than  she  alarmed  her.  She  was 
a  Swede;  a  tall,  quiet  creature,  with  wide  light-blue 
eyes  and  an  abundance  of  cool  gold  hair  that  was 
coiled  about  her  head  in  numberless  braids.  Her 
forehead  was  broad  and  the  gold  hair  was  allowed 
to  droop  away  from  it,  of  its  own  precious  weight, 
upon  her  neck,  almost  to  her  slightly  bent  shoul- 
ders. Her  figure  was  "  boyish,"  more  boyish  than 
Nathalie's,  but  it  was  gracious,  after  the  lofty  man- 
ner of  the  women  from  the  North,  and  she  was  self- 
possessed  and  sophisticated.  She  was  always  beau- 
tifully dressed,  interesting  in  texture  and  line,  with 
a  great  deal  of  savage-coloured  embroidery  about 
the  low-cut  necks.  She  was  like  the  women  Louisa 
had  seen  in  allegorical  paintings  from  the  North; 
pictures  of  women  walking  over  green  slopes  of 
grass,  among  trees  with  fine  little  leaves  —  but  never 
enough  of  them  to  cast  a  shadow  —  and  flowers,  like 
eyes,  upon  the  flat  green  grass.  The  designs  upon 
the  painted  women's  robes  were  always  like  their 
eyes  and  the  flowers  upon  the  grass,  mysteriously 
alike  and  star-like,  all  gleaming,  it  seemed,  as  in- 
evitably, as  unconsciously,  as  the  very  stars  them- 
selves. The  woman  puzzled  Louisa  just  as  the  pic- 


AMONG  THE  BOOK-BINDERS  49 

tures  had  puzzled  her,  but  she  seemed  so  real  that 
she  gave  her  no  more  fear  than  did  the  stars  she  set 
her  to  thinking  of.  The  Swede's  work  was  very  fine, 
and  the  books  came  forth  from  her  strong  white 
hands  —  hands  always  heavy  with  their  curious 
rings  —  in  free  ampleness  of  line  and  form.  Louisa 
studied  her  books  with  an  aching  interest.  Her 
own  always  came  forth  so  small  and  tight.  And 
though  the  girl  often  glanced  at  the  Swede  with  a 
half-admitted  hope  that  she  might  meet  her  eyes, 
might  some  day  even  talk  with  her,  she  noticed 
Louisa  no  more  than  she  noticed  the  rest.  The 
other  students  were  interested  in  her,  too,  Louisa 
had  observed,  and  even  Monsieur  Avril  treated  her 
with  a  friendly  distinction,  as  if  her  work  com- 
manded his  interest  rather  than  his  criticism. 

As  Louisa  sat  with  her  hands  clasped  upon  her 
book,  listening  vaguely  to  the  noises  from  the  streets 
below,  feeling  a  little  giddy,  in  her  fatigue,  with  the 
sense  of  height  the  glimpses  of  roofs  and  chimneys 
and  flying  smoke  gave  outside  the  windows  about 
the  big,  low  room,  the  words  of  two  young  French 
women  at  work  at  a  press  just  behind  her  slowly 
made  their  way  into  her  mind.  Louisa  stiffened 
from  the  shock  and  gripped  the  edge  of  the  table  at 
either  side  of  her  book.  The  Swede  was,  then,  the 
mistress  of  Monsieur  Avril ! 

Fascinated,  Louisa  slowly  turned  her  eyes  towards 
the  corner  where,  beneath  a  window,  the  tranquil 


50  FAME-SEEKERS 

woman    always    worked.     The    light    of   the    north 
winter  sky  was  resting  upon  the  coils  of  gold  braid 
and  the  active  white  hands.     Terror  lest  she  should, 
at  last,  meet  the  deep  blue  eyes  made  Louisa's  heart 
beat  fast,  but  she  could  not  force  herself  to  look 
away.     And   the    Swede   did   raise   her    eyes!     She 
looked  back  at  Louisa   a   little  puzzled,   then   she 
smiled  frankly  and  very  sweetly.     And,  with  an  im- 
pulse which  crowded  out  censure,  Louisa  returned 
the  smile.     Quietly  the  Swede  lowered  her  eyes  and 
became  as  absorbed  as  before  in  her  work.     Louisa's 
hands  fluttered  the  leaves  of  her  little  faded  volume 
of  verse,  her  pulse  kept  pace  with  the  fluttering,  and 
her  eyes  realised  the  wonder  of  the  late  afternoon 
light    upon    the    Swede's    gold    hair.     And    in    the 
strength    that    comes    to    women    in    bewilderment 
Louisa's    sound    young   heart    made    one    of    those 
splendid  leaps  towards  kindness  in  judgment  that 
the  mind  takes  so  much  plodding  to  follow  after. 
Silence  settled  upon  the  room  —  a  silence  potent 
of  its  own  weight  —  and  faces  became  lost  in  the 
shadow  of  drooping  hair  as  heads  bent  over  hands 
at  work.     A  girl  went  to  a  press ;  the  great  arms 
whirled,  and  every  one  stirred  a  little.     Suddenly 
the  door  opened  and,  on  a  gust  of  wintry  air,  Mon- 
sieur Avril  came  in.     "Bon jour,  Mesdames!"  and 
he  glanced  keenly  about  as  he  laid  aside  his  hat  and 
overcoat.     Louisa's  eyes  flew  to  the   Swede  again. 
The  gold  head  lifted  and  the  two  smiled  at  one  an- 


AMONG  THE  BOOK-BINDERS  51 

other.  It  was,  certainly,  a  smile  to  think  over! 
Louisa  sighed.  Avril  had  a  way  of  coming  to  the 
studio  when  he  was  least  expected,  and  now  Louisa 
thought  that  she  knew  what  brought  him,  knew  the 
secret  of  his  devotion  to  his  class!  Louisa  shud- 
dered to  realise  how  little  ignorance  gets  from  the 
landscape  it  lives  in. 

Avril's  was  an  interesting  personality.  That 
the  students  found  him  so  they  left  no  room  for 
doubt:  that  Louisa  found  him  so  irritated  and  hu- 
miliated her.  Life  between  the  Rue  Falguiere  and 
the  little  street  back  of  the  Madeleine  where  Avril 
had  his  studio,  where  rents  and  lessons  in  all  the 
arts  cost  so  little  that  they  wore  the  look  of  cost- 
ing nothing  at  all,  was  costing  Louisa  a  great  deal 
of  something  vastly  more  difficult  to  get,  or  to  re- 
place, than  money.  Avril  had  taken  a  certain  in- 
terest in  her  progress  from  the  start.  She  had 
been  flattered  and  encouraged.  But  to-day,  since 
she  had  overheard  these  two  young  women  laughing 
about  his  weakness  for  fair  hair  and  white  hands, 
her  faith  in  man's  interest  in  woman  for  her  talents 
had  gone  low.  To-day  she  sickened  at  the  thought 
of  the  whiteness  of  her  hands  —  hands  that  William 
Gleason  had  condemned  as  "  idle-born."  Who 
really  cared  whether  they  ever  learned  to  tool  a 
faultless  thread  of  gold  across  a  plane  of  leather 
or  of  silk?  What  did  it  really  matter  whether  she 
bound  one  book  or  a  hundred,  or  no  books  at  all ! 


52  FAME  SEEKERS 

To-day  Avril  came  to  her  work  first.  His  talk  was 
light,  charming,  effulgent,  and  seemed  to  hover  over 
the  work  rather  than  to  touch  upon  it.  As  he 
leaned  upon  the  table  at  her  side  and  bent  the  lit- 
tle volume  about  in  his  strong,  thin  hands,  Louisa 
caught  a  significant  smile,  which  slipped  across  the 
eyes  of  the  young  women  just  behind  them,  and  she 
flushed  and  glanced  nervously  at  the  Swede  in  her 
corner.  But  the  gold  head  was  bent  and  the  eyes 
that  Louisa  feared  more  than  anything  were  taken 
up  with  the  work  before  them.  Vaguely  Louisa 
realised  that  it  was  not  the  woman's  sin  that  baffled 
her ;  it  was  the  sinning  woman's  tranquillity. 

"Mademoiselle  is  not  too  industrious  to-day?" 
Avril  bent  upon  the  table  beside  her  and  smiled 
around  upon  her. 

"  No,  I  am  not  industrious."  Slowly  Louisa 
raised  her  eyes  and  looked  into  the  young  French- 
man's face.  "  I  hate  work  to-day,  and  everything 
else." 

"  You  Americans,"  he  laughed,  "  waste  so  much 
of  your  precious  time  in  tragic  hating.  It  is  very 
amusing." 

"  Amusing?  " 

"  Yes,  that.  It  is  because  you  do  not  see  that  it 
is  amusing  —  is  it  not?  Ah,  well,"  he  folded  his 
hands  and  looked  out  the  window,  "  it  is  Novem- 
ber, and  the  only  way  to  be  well  amused  in  No- 
vember is  to  be  a  little  bit  grey,  and  sad!  Like 


AMONG  THE  BOOK-BINDERS  53 

the  weather  we  must  always  be  to  really  be  amused." 
Then  he  moved  on  towards  another's  work,  but 
as  he  passed  her  chair  his  hand  brushed  her  arm, 
and  she  knew  —  a  woman  always  knows  —  that  it 
had  not  been  accidental.  She  put  her  book  away 
and  got  into  her  wraps.  Avril  seemed  already  to 
have  forgotten  her  existence,  was  chatting  away 
with  a  cryptic-eyed  young  Russian  girl  about  Ana- 
tole  France's  last  book.  The  girl  was  thin  and  flat- 
chested,  and  they  were  laughing  together  over  some- 
thing France  had  said  about  thin  women. 

Louisa  slipped  out  and  closed  the  door  with  pain- 
ful care,  perhaps  because  she  so  realised  that  she 
might  have  banged  it  off  its  hinges  for  all  that  any- 
body cared.  She  cared !  She  gave  thanks  to  have  a 
closed  door  between  herself  and  the  room  and  its 
human  mysteries.  She  hurried  recklessly  down  the 
three  flights  of  worn  steps  (steps  she  felt  and  re- 
sented in  their  very  unevenness),  and  gave  a  grate- 
ful sigh  to  reach  the  fresh  air  and  the  high  skies 
out  of  doors. 

It  seemed  to  Louisa  as  the  clean  cold  air  touched 
her  face  that  she  had  never  felt  any  thing  so  re- 
assuring. She  had  come  away  from  everything  she 
belonged  to  and  the  blessed  out-of-doors  was  the  only 
thing  she'd  brought  along  that  had  not  utterly  de- 
serted her.  It  was  good  to  have  left  behind  their 
door  the  bookbinders  and  their  complacency.  Curi- 
ous, musk-sweet,  paradox-loving,  old-world  creatures 


54  FAME-SEEKERS 

with  their  glib  tongues,  their  acrobatic  imaginations 
and  their  amazing  gifts.  It  was  as  if  they  had  tried 
everything,  suffered  all  torture,  and  gone  through 
all  joy,  only  to  blow  away  a  thought  of  it  in  a  light 
kiss,  only  to  gain  their  cryptic  glance  of  everything 
and  nothing  mixed,  as  paths  crossed  once  and  mo- 
mentarily. And  the  only  rule  was  to  keep  the  kiss 
light,  and  not  to  care  that  the  paths  would  certainly 
never  cross  again.  She  gave  a  sigh  that  made  her 
laugh  at  herself;  a  big  sigh  of  thankfulness  for  the 
clean-minded  friendliness  of  men  in  her  own  world, 
of  men  like  Burroughs  or  Billy  Gleason. 

Then  came  the  quick  taunting  thought  — "  Per- 
haps I  do  not  understand  them  either.  Perhaps  — " 
she  jostled  a  little  girl  with  a  great  flowered  hat- 
box  on  her  arm  in  her  absent  mindedness  and  got 
a  retort  as  variegated  as  could  have  been  the  arti- 
ficial flowers  on  the  hat  inside  the  box.  Louisa 
laughed  into  the  girl's  eyes  and  knew  that  the  girl 
had  stopped  to  look  after  her,  was  grinning  after 
her,  her  head  full  of  flippant  comment  for  "  les 
Americaines." 


CHAPTER  VII 

HAZARD 

IT  was  that  delicate  moment  between  afternoon  and 
evening  when  mood  is  neither  dead  nor  yet  new-born, 
when  the  mind,  not  knowing  what  to  think,  rests  for 
a  while,  eyes  and  their  peering  keeping  life  alive. 
The  fountains  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  were  play- 
ing the  passing  of  the  exquisite  hour,  their  spray 
breaking  in  trickling,  bluish  brilliance  upon  the 
shallow  basin  of  amber-toned  water,  rippling  and 
blurring  over  the  dark  polished  bronzes.  The  wide 
spaces  of  pavement  were  astir  with  traffic,  frivolous 
and  commercial,  what  was  left  of  the  day's  business 
mingling  in  democratic  indifference  with  what  had 
begun  of  the  night's  entertainment ;  faces  of  drivers, 
drawn  and  pointed  in  fatigue,  going  by,  pace  by 
pace,  with  painted  beauties  all  vivid  in  expectancy. 
Every  city's  every  day  spectacle,  but  so  poignant, 
so  touching  in  the  limpid  hour  which  is  neither  of 
night  nor  of  day. 

Louisa  came  down  the  Rue  Royale  and  into  the 
wide  Place  with  eyes  and  heart  open,  and  fairly 
grateful  in  her  sense  of  deliverance.  No  doubt  the 
equivalent  of  each  book-binder,  of  Avril,  of  the  gold- 

55 


56  FAME-SEEKERS 

haired  Swede,  of  Nathalie,  Keating  and  the  rest  were 
represented,  many  times  over,  in  the  home-going 
throng,  but  out  here  in  the  open  they  could  not 
trouble  her,  meant  no 'more  to  her  than  she  to  them. 
Here  she  was  lost  and  ignored,  but  with  a  complete- 
ness that  was  repose  in  itself.  Nothing,  absolutely 
nothing,  was  expected  of  her  here;  she  was  free  to 
be  as  proudly  insignificant  as  her  confessing  woman's 
nature  longed  to  be.  She  was  tired  to  death  of  ear- 
nestness, and  suspicious  of  all  earnest  people.  She 
had  heard  Avril  and  the  Russian  girl,  quoting  their 
Anatole  France,  laughing  that  from  pole  to  pole 
effort  was  either  for  food  or  for  love.  They 
sickened  her!  Nathalie  and  her  eternal  hopefulness 
exhausted  her.  She  tossed  her  furs  back  and  walked 
aimlessly  among  the  silvery,  winter-clad  trees  of  the 
Champs  Elysees,  she  thought  with  an  entirely  new 
patience  of  William  Gleason  and  his  easy-going 
philosophy ;  of  her  sister,  Mrs.  William  Gleason,  and 
her  comfortable,  gentle  life,  and  lukewarm  amuse- 
ments. She  laughed  to  herself  as  Gleason's  words 
crossed  her  memory :  —  "  Just  chuck  all  the  ideas  and 
get  married."  She  lifted  her  eyes  when  she  laughed 
and  unconsciously  took  in  the  beauty  of  life  and 
movement  out  in  the  gathering  dusk.  And  the 
laugh,  and  the  sudden  look  of  her,  told  that  Louisa 
was  growing  up,  that,  a  profit  —  sad  maybe,  but  a 
profit  —  had  come  to  her  from  her  weeks  of  Nathalie 
and  her  energy,  the  gold-haired  Swede  and  her  wise 


HAZARD  57 

tranquillity,  the  book-binders  and  their  careless 
humour,  for  she  was  able,  all  at  once,  to  come  back 
to  her  own  part  of  the  world,  to  walk  along  with 
the  well-dressed  idlers,  and  to  see  that  they  had  their 
meaning  and  a  trend  as  much  as  had  the  workers. 
Louisa  caught,  with  a  new  laugh  in  her  eyes,  the 
spice  of  sophistication  which  is  the  very  life  and 
death  of  the  Paris  air. 

But  the  throng  was  thinning  out.  Babies  and 
nurses  under  the  trees  were  being  replaced  by  young 
men  in  top-hats  and  skirts  that  showed  gay  high  heels 
at  their  narrow  edges.  Something  rather  more  than 
sophistication  was  creeping  about  in  the  shadows. 
The  curtain  was  slipping  up  on  the  Paris  evening: 
Sophistication  Applied  was  the  name  of  the  short, 
one-act  curtain-raiser,  and  with  a  smile  that  mixed 
with  resignation  Louisa  hurried,  owning  to  herself 
that  it  was  high-time  to  go  to  shelter,  time  to  go 
home  to  Nathalie.  Well,  she'd  go !  But  she'd  walk 
across  the  river!  She  could  not  resist  that.  Then 
she'd  take  a  taxi-auto  and  make  up  the  lost  time 
from  there  on. 

She  made  her  way  across  the  wide  Avenue  with 
its  brilliant  and  intricate  come-and-go  of  convey- 
ance, then  hesitated,  looking  before  her.  The  two 
Palaces  loomed  on  either  hand,  piles  of  stone,  window- 
jewelled,  silent  and  darkened  now,  no  sort  of  salon 
going  on.  The  tall  pillars  with  their  gilded  horses 
guarded  the  Pont  Alexandre  just  before  her,  beyond 


58  FAME-SEEKERS 

that  more  trees  and  pavement,  then  the  silhouette  of 
the  Invalides  against  the  delicate  sky.  It  was  nearly 
too  much  of  art,  of  meaning,  for  one  moment's  frame, 
and  Louisa,  feeling  the  sting  of  sheer  beauty  as  she 
had  never  done  before,  turned  away  from  it  all  down 
the  quiet  Cour  la  Reine.  She'd  loiter  there  for  a 
little  while,  then  cross  by  the  bridge  below.  She'd 
"  steal "  one  more  bridge !  Who'd  know,  or  care ! 
To-morrow  night  she'd  be  a  "  good  girl "  and  go 
home  early,  and  directly.  Nothing  ever  had  hap- 
pened to  anyone  she  knew.  What  sense  could  there 
be  in  going  through  one's  days  afraid  of  the  most 
beautiful  hour  of  all  —  the  dusk. 

She  threw  back  her  furs  to  feel  the  cool  air  upon 
her  throat,  then,  clasping  her  hands  in  her  muff, 
she  leaned  upon  the  river  wall.  The  wall  dropped 
down  to  the  quays,  and  the  old  trees  that  grew  at  its 
base  bent  about  her,  making  their  marvel  of  winter 
tracery  against  the  pallid  sky.  She  could  almost  put 
out  her  hands  and  touch  the  branches,  so  near,  so 
friendly,  was  the  screen  they  put  about  her.  The 
arches  of  the  great  bridge  threw  their  deep  shadows 
upon  the  stone  quays  and  the  shifting  river,  and 
lights  —  on  the  boats  slipping  by,  and  all  along  the 
banks  and  over  the  city  —  were  beginning  their 
dance  as  the  after-glow  faded  out.  Behind  her  there 
was  little  traffic,  and  only  scattered  passers-by;  then 
the  curb,  and  sward,  and  shrubs,  and  paths,  up  to 
the  splendid  stone  walls  of  the  Palace  of  Art. 

Louisa  glanced  over  her  shoulder.     It  was  so  still, 


HAZARD  59 

so  beautiful,  the  music  of  the  life  of  the  Champs 
Elysees  coming  only  faintly.  What  a  pity  to  be 
a  woman;  always  afraid,  always  in  danger  of  lurk- 
ing ugliness !  She  rested  her  cheek  against  her  muff 
and  thought  of  it  all,  her  eyes  following  the  shifting 
river.  A  man  was  walking  below  on  the  quay.  He 
had  come  from  beneath  the  bridge;  was  standing 
there  watching  the  water  and  looking  about  him. 
He  was  free,  free  to  go  where  he  liked,  to  look  on 
unmolested ! 

The  man  turned,  idly,  and  crossed  the  quay,  com- 
ing towards  the  foot  of  the  steps.  Louisa  realised 
suddenly  that  she  was  standing  just  at  the  head  of 
the  stairs  that  lead,  through  an  opening  in  the  wall, 
down  from  the  street  to  the  boat-landing.  She 
thought  of  moving,  but  stubborn  all  at  once,  would 
not  stir.  Why  should  she  go,  if  she  cared  to  stay? 
She  could  hear  his  steps,  coming  up,  nearer  and 
nearer.  He  stopped  once,  no  doubt  to  look  about  him. 
Her  heart  beat  a  litle  faster,  for  the  place  was  lonely. 
Vaguely  she  thought  of  flight,  but  she  did  not  stir. 
Her  hands  clasped  tight  together  in  her  muff.  As  he 
came  up  to  the  level  of  the  street  she  glanced  at  him, 
and  he  raised  his  eyes  and  saw  her.  The  two  victims 
of  life's  little  pastime,  of  coincidence,  gazed  at  one 
another  unbelievingly  under  the  light  of  a  street- 
lamp,  and  hazard,  and  the  ugly  ill-trimmed  lamp  per- 
formed the  ceremony  of  presentation  that  any 
amount  of  clever  device  had  failed  to  bring  about. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DUSK 

A  SAVING  little  smile  slipped  from  one  amazed  face 
to  the  other;  shadow-like  it  was  and  full  of  startled 
alarm,  but  a  smile  that  saved,  then  Keating  pulled 
off  his  wide  black  hat  and  bowed.  The  bow  was 
tardy  and  made  them  smile  again,  this  time  more 
freely.  They  were  a  little  stiff  and  absurd,  and  they 
knew  it,  and  they  saved  themselves  again  by  con- 
fessing in  a  laugh.  The  laugh  tottered,  but  was  a 
laugh  all  the  same.  Then  Keating  gave  in  to  one 
of  his  outbursts  of  enjoyment  that  always  so  irri- 
tated Burroughs.  Lousia  did  not  know  that  Keat- 
ing's  laugh  annoyed  Burroughs,  but  it  annoyed  her, 
too  —  or  amazed  her,  made  something  within  her 
step  back  quickly,  as  if  some  untamed,  let-loose 
thing  had  passed.  They  put  an  end  to  the  chaotic 
business  by  shaking  hands,  then  they  found  them- 
selves leaning,  side  by  side,  upon  the  river-wall,  and 
the  boats  went  on  mechanically  slipping  by,  and  the 
limpid  evening  beauty  was  scarcely  deepened,  for  all 
that  it  pretended  so  to  be,  by  the  whole  amazing  in- 
cident ! 

Keating  put  out  his  stick  and  touched  the  branches 
60 


DUSK  61 

before  them  with  absent,  appreciative  attention  to 
their  trend.  His  lightness  of  touch  made  the  girl 
forget  his  laugh.  He  turned  towards  Louisa  and 
took  her  in  thoughtfully.  He  had  the  situation 
better  in  hand  than  she  had. 

"  Why  are  you  over  here,  so  late  and  alone,  Miss 
Garth?  "  he  asked  her.  "  It  isn't  the  sort  of  quarter 
I've  been  led  to  believe  that  you  affect." 

Louisa  glanced  around  at  him  in  amusement.  She 
felt,  someway,  that  she  could  afford  to  be  amused 
with  him  now  that  she  had  actually  met  him  face  to 
face.  She'd  manage  now,  to  keep  him !  She  did  her 
best  to  hold  her  voice  at  the  level  of  inconsequences. 
"  I'd  never  have  thought  of  calling  a  river-bank  a 
'  quarter  ' !  Besides,  do  people  '  affect '  quarters  ? 
And  you,  Mr.  Keating?  You  are  as  far  away  from 
home  here  as  I  am,  don't  you  think  so?  You  are 
the  last  person  that  I'd  have  dreamed  of  meeting  over 
here." 

Keating  glanced  in  the  direction  of  the  Grand 
Palais,  and  smiled  cynically. 

"  The  Salon,  of  course,"  said  Louisa  quickly.  "  I 
had  forgotten.  One  of  these  days  this  will  be  your 
very-own  quarter,  won't  it?  I  used  to  live  over 
there,"  and  she  made  a  little  gesture  towards  the 
Champs  Elysees. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Keating.  "  You  have  run 
away  from  the  place,  and  I  want  to  —  break  in. 
You  —  care  for  the  river?  "  he  took  her  in  curiously. 


62  FAME-SEEKERS 

"  But,  doesn't  everyone  care  for  the  Seine  ?  "  She 
looked  at  him  again,  thinking  little  enough  of  what 
she  was  saying,  telling  herself  she  must  go  home, 
that  Nathalie  would  be  worried. 

"  No  doubt,"  Keating  laughed.  "  It's  a  sort  of 
a  looking-glass,  after  all !  " 

"  You  think  that  is  it  ?  "  Louisa  laughed  more 
easily  than  she'd  have  believed  possible.  "  I  like  it," 
she  ventured,  "  because  it  is  friendly,  and  thinks  as 
I  think.  And,  of  course,  that's  the  way  of  mirrors! 
It's  especially  beautiful  to  me,"  she  chatted  on  to 
cover  her  own  sense  of  strangeness,  "  just  here,  with 
the  Invalides  off  there.  The  dome  in  this  light  looks 
so  like  one  of  Napoleon's  Sunday  hats, —  the  sort 
one  sees  in  the  museums,  under  glass.  I'm  always 
imagining  his  stubborn,  disillusioned,  vain  little 
ghost  peering  at  me  from  beneath  it;  scorning  me, 
too !  And  that's  good  for  me !  " 

Keating  was  silent  for  a  moment,  unconcerned 
seemingly  and  tranquil.  Then  he  turned  his  back 
to  the  wall  and  tapped  the  pavement  with  his  stick. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  am  thinking  about  Na- 
poleon ?  "  He  turned  his  head  and  smiled  down  upon 
her.  The  light  was  behind  him,  and  his  face  was  in 
shadow,  but  the  brightness  fell  directly  upon  Louisa's 
startled  face. 

"  Why  —  yes  ?  "  she  quivered. 

"  I  am  not  thinking  of  Napoleon  at  all !  Nor  of 
the  river,  nor  of  the  night,  except  as  they  make  a 


DUSK  63 

background  for  you  and  me.  I  am  thinking  of 
nothing  but  the  amazement  of  being  just  here,  and 
talking  like  this,  with  you!  " 

Louisa  told  herself  again,  monotonously,  that  she 
must  go,  but  she  only  stood  looking  up  at  Keating's 
shadowed  face. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  first  time  that  we  ever 
saw  one  another?  "  Keating  went  on.  "  It  was  later 
than  this,  but  not  as  dark  as  now  because  it  was 
summer-time.  You  troubled  me  then,  and  you  have 
troubled  me  ever  since:  you  trouble  me  now  and  you 
will  always  trouble  me ! "  He  smiled  down  upon 
her  sternly. 

"  But  — "  Louisa  faltered,  "  I  would  not  do 
that! "  She  stood  very  straight  and  she  did  her 
best  to  steady  her  voice. 

Keating  gave  a  great  sigh,  looked  at  her  closely, 
then  folded  his  arms  and  stared  before  him.  "  Why 
not  take  me  just  as  I  am,  place  me  as  I  am,  and  let 
me  be?  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,  or  offend  you. 
Try  to  realise  that  much  at  least!  I've  avoided 
you,  and  now  a  mere  chance  throws  me  in  your  way. 
Why  do  you  live  in  the  Rue  Falguiere?  Why  don't 
you  go  back  to  your  own  life  and  let  such  places 
be  in  their  own  sort  of  peace?  You  disturb  the 
neighbourhood  of  working  people  just  as  you  dis- 
turb me.  That's  my  class,  you  know!  Do  you 
imagine  that  because  you  are  amiable  and  sweet 
that  you  do  not  do  harm,  even  harm,  to  the  laundry- 


64  FAME-SEEKERS 

girls  next  door  to  your  studio  who  work  all  day  in 
the  cold  and  the  wet?  Do  you  think  they  are  indif- 
ferent to  your  beautiful  clothes  and  your  beautiful 
manners?  They  are  not!  A  drudge  knows  how  to 
be  happy  in  her  own  way,  but  you  don't  know  her 
way  and  you  can't  help  her.  I  hate  a  slumming 
woman!  Can't  you  see  how  you  look  to  them? 
They'd  be  able  to  forget  you  if  they  did  not  see 
you !  And  I'm  just  as  badly  off  as  they  are,  and  my 
disadvantages  are  as  crude  as  theirs.  Yours  is  the 
power  to  go  away.  Why  don't  you  go?  I'll  no 
more  be  able  to  keep  away  from  you  now  than  those 
girls  will  be  able  to  get  better  clothes  and  flub-dubs 
because  you  pass  them  every  day  dressed  up  in  yours. 
Do  you  know,"  and  he  laughed  again,  "  that  you 
and  I  can  do  a  great  service  for  one  another?  "  He 
paused,  compelling  and  holding  her  eyes.  "  We  can 
let  one  another  be !  " 

Louisa,  bewildered  and  hurt,  peered  about  her 
for  something  to  take  her  home  but,  by  fatality,  as 
strong  for  one  sort  of  chance  as  another,  there  was 
nothing  passing. 

"  Do  you  know  your  way  home?  "  asked  Keating. 
"Shall  I  take  you  there?" 

"I  know  my  way  very  well,"  said  Louisa.  Her 
own  voice  startled  her.  It  was  as  if  in  the  last  few 
minutes  she'd  outgrown  her  own  manner  of  speech. 

They  walked  in  silence  towards  the  bridge  and 
Keating  hailed  an  auto.  Louisa  climbed  in  blindly, 


DUSK  65 

Keating  helping  her.  She  gave  the  direction  and 
turned  mechanically  to  give  him  her  hand. 

He  had  left  her !  She  saw  him,  a  deeper  and  more 
dense  shadow  for  the  red  of  life  in  him,  than  the 
shadow-like  trees  that  in  a  moment  had  absorbed  him. 
He  did  not  hesitate,  nor  glance  back.  He  was  stub- 
bornly following  his  chosen  way.  And  that  was  away 
from  her,  as  far  as  he  was  able  to  take  himself !  She 
gave  the  driver  her  address  and  told  him  to  hurry. 
She  sat  far  back  in  a  corner  and  put  her  head  against 
the  cushions  and  closed  her  eyes.  She  was  cold, 
and  shocked,  and  hurt.  She  had  been  roughly 
treated  for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  But  —  the 
thought  crept  over  her  with  its  strange,  warm  thrill 
—  why  had  he  been  rough  like  that?  Like  that! 
She  might,  she  ought  to  go  back  and  find  him!  He 
was  more  hurt  than  she.  She  sat  straight,  her  hand 
at  her  throat,  and  opened  her  eyes  wide.  What  she 
saw  was  the  face  of  a  clock,  that  ticked  away  upon 
the  wall  of  a  little  restaurant  above  the  heads  of 
coachmen  eating  their  dinners,  their  horses  in  line, 
along  the  curb,  swinging  their  nose-bags.  The 
hands  pointed  to  twenty  minutes  to  eight. 

She  sat  back  and  smiled.  It  was  one  of  those 
myriad  small,  tragic  smiles  the  dark  buries  in  its 
own  quiet  way.  Louisa  never  forgot  that  clock. 

The  inevitable  hour  comes,  the  mile-post  marking 
it,  when  the  Louisas  realise  the  meanings  of  things 
as  well  as  of  people.  The  glorious,  warm  habit  of 


66  FAME-SEEKERS 

considering  only  that  which  is  warm  and  gloriously 
alive  gets  itself,  at  last,  intermingled  with  the  subtle 
hurts  and  joys  that  lurk  in  the  touch,  the  associa- 
tion of  inanimate  things.  Things  crowd  in  more  and 
more,  and  console  and  heal,  with  their  silent  persis- 
tence, as  noisy  laugh  and  rushing  impulse  grow  into 
smiles  and  second  thoughts.  So  the  cheap,  plain- 
faced  little  clock  played  mile-post  for  Louisa  Garth. 


CHAPTER  IX 

MARCH    SNOW 

THE  winter  was  slipping  by,  and  the  students,  the 
vast  army  of  wilful  martyrs,  were  stirring  out  of 
their  industrious  coma.  Enthusiasm  had  worn 
through  to  ambition,  talent  had  put  on  the  austere 
inches  that  come  of  a  little  instruction.  Recom- 
pense was  unchained  in  the  place,  was  worrying 
young  hope  even  as  the  first  stirring  of  sap  was 
worrying  the  earth.  Bliss  had  given  in  to  utility 
and,  tottering  under  the  weight  of  common-sense, 
the  youngsters  were  all  blinking  after  the  annual 
prizes. 

Nathalie  and  Louisa  were  working  regularly  at  the 
music  and  the  book-binding ;  Nathalie,  with  the  pros- 
pect of  playing  for  an  influential  concert  manager, 
and  Louisa  for  reasons  best  known  to  herself.  She 
talked  no  more  about  her  work,  had  fallen  into 
silence  about  all  personal  things.  Work  had  seem- 
ingly captivated  her.  In  the  beginning  Nathalie 
had  looked  on  at  her  restlessness,  wondering  if  such 
a  girl  could  work.  Then,  one  day,  something  had 
happened;  a  mystery  that  Nathalie  had  never  been 
able  to  fathom.  Louisa  had  been  out  very  late,  and 


68  FAME-SEEKERS 

Nathalie  had  waited,  nervous,  then  angry,  then 
alarmed.  When  she  came  in  at  last  Nathalie  had 
scolded,  and  roundly.  Louisa  had  listened  meekly, 
then  baffled  and  swept  Nathalie's  anger  away  with 
downright  penitence.  She  had  promised  of  her  own 
accord  not  to  stay  out  late  again,  furthermore  she 
had  lived  up  to  her  promise. 

All  the  evening,  after  this  mysterious  event, 
Louisa  had  been  gay  and  gentle  by  turns,  moods 
rushing  about  her.  When  she  had  talked  at  all  it 
had  been  more  with  the  lamp-shade  than  with 
Nathalie.  She  had  slipped  away  early  to  bed  in 
her  balcony  room  with  a  glance  so  deep  that 
Nathalie  had  felt  as  if  she'd  been  allowed  to  look 
through  the  very  doors  of  space.  And  Nathalie  had 
tried,  during  all  the  preoccupied  weeks  that  followed, 
to  think  it  out.  From  that  day,  Louisa  had  kept  her 
word,  had  come  in  at  a  regular  hour  and  had  worked 
as  only  a  girl  who  has  been  brought  up  to  do  nothing 
at  all  can,  or  will,  work  when  the  frenzy  takes  her. 

It  was  all  very  well  for  Louisa  to  work,  but  she 
was  one  of  those  creatures  who  inspire  responsibility, 
and  Nathalie  found  herself  troubling  more  about  the 
over-working  than  she'd  ever  done  about  the  over- 
idling.  For  the  habit  of  work  was  crowding  out 
something  else,  seemed  to  be  getting  the  better  of 
the  lightness  that  had  made  Louisa  lovable.  A  cer- 
tain power  she  had  of  concentrating  her  eyes  upon 
whatever  interested  her,  and  a  kind  of  fragile  bent 


MARCH  SNOW  69 

she  expressed  in  her  tall  slight  lines,  were  becoming 
too  evident,  and  there  were  times  when  Nathalie 
thought  that  she  looked  positively  ill.  Nathalie 
tried  a  plunge  into  distractions,  wasted  her  own  time 
in  tea-rooms  and  theatres,  invited  people  to  come 
to  them.  Louisa  was  always  charming  but  remote, 
always  veiled  off  with  her  own  thoughts,  and  she 
seemed  to  forget  places  and  people  as  soon  as  they 
had  passed. 

Burroughs  came  constantly  to  the  studio  and 
played  the  part  of  "  big  brother "  to  the  two 
girls  with  a  tact  that  was  enhanced  by  his  genuine 
affection  for  them.  Burroughs  was  a  distinguished 
young  man.  His  talent  was  variegated  if  not  bot- 
tomless, he  played  about  as  well  as  he  painted,  wrote 
delightful  letters,  read  and  talked  discriminatingly 
about  books.  He  was  gifted,  and  in  his  place,  im- 
portant. The  best  thing  about  him  was  that  he 
knew  his  place,  and  that  he  had  the  worldliness  to 
stay  in  it  and  to  seem  to  be  contented. 

Burroughs  and  Nathalie  played  through  many  of 
the  long  winter  evenings,  and  Louisa  sat  in  an  arm- 
chair near  the  fire,  listening,  or  seeming  to  listen. 
Others  came  occasionally,  but  Burroughs  was  nearly 
always  there.  Of  Keating  they  had  almost  ceased 
to  talk,  unless,  now  and  then  Burroughs  brought 
some  news  of  him.  For  Keating  was  getting  on, 
or,  getting  known :  at  any  rate  he  was  making  his 
stir  among  the  students  and  at  the  Clubs,  was  build- 


70  FAME-SEEKERS 

ing  the  foundation  of  his  own  particular  God-knows- 
what.  Sometimes  Nathalie  talked  with  Burroughs 
of  the  changes  she  felt  in  Louisa,  and  they'd  watch 
her,  anxiously,  together.  "  Maybe  it  is  just  Louisa's 
way  of  growing  up,"  Nathalie  suggested.  "  Then," 
said  Burroughs,  "  I'd  rather  not  see  a  Louisa  grow 
up!" 

One  stormy  afternoon  in  March  Nathalie  was 
alone  in  the  studio.  For  three  hours  she  had  been 
giving  all  the  energy  of  her  firm  small  person  to  her 
violin  and  there  was  that  fine  glow  of  fatigue  upon 
her  which  is  the  sunset-light  of  work  well  done. 
But,  with  the  relaxing  came  thoughts  of  Louisa  and 
a  quarter-hour  went  by  on  random  bits  played  me- 
chanically, fingers  thinking  alone.  Then  she  forgot 
to  play  at  all  and  stood  with  her  violin  at  her  side 
and  her  face  turned  up  to  the  skylight,  seeing 
nothing. 

It  was  snowing,  and  the  wind  was  rattling  at  the 
glass.  She  stared  at  Louisa's  chair  by  the  fire,  and 
she  wondered  that  in  one  short  winter  —  less  even 
than  that  —  Louisa  Garth  could  have  actually  come 
into  a  chair!  What  in  the  world  did  she  think  about, 
sitting  there  through  long  hours  while  she  and  Bur- 
roughs played?  Louisa  did  not  deeply  care  for  books 
though  she  often  held  one  and  read  a  little,  and  some- 
times Nathalie  was  sure  that  the  music  tired  her. 
And,  absurd  as  it  seemed,  the  ghost  of  Keating  al- 
ways haunted  Nathalie's  preoccupation  for  Louisa. 


MARCH  SNOW  71 

That  she  had  ever  met  him,  or  had  talked  with  him, 
Nathalie  did  not  dream. 

The  snow  was  flying  and  the  skylight  was 
blanketed  softly.  The  room  was  growing  dark  — 
too  dark  to  see  the  music  though  it  was  only  four 
o'clock.  Nathalie  wondered,  as  she  often  wondered, 
what  sort  of  place  Keating  lived  in,  and  she  smiled 
at  herself  as  the  idea  of  going  to  see  him  came  again 
into  her  mind.  It  could  do  no  harm!  Even  Bur- 
roughs had  given  him  up  a  little,  and  Keating  had 
made  new  friends  among  the  painters.  She  could 
take  him  as  she  found  him,  could  act  accordingly. 
If  he  misunderstood?  If  he  thought  she  was  run- 
ning after  him?  What  did  it  matter  what  he 
thought,  as  long  as  she  was  square  with  herself. 
She  flushed,  and  she  set  her  red  mouth  and  drew  a 
great  rich  chord  out  of  her  violin,  then  put  it  gently 
away  in  its  velvet-lined  case.  She  was  going,  and 
that  was  the  end  of  it.  She  loved  being  out  in  the 
snow! 

She  wrapped  herself  in  a  long  brown  coat,  put  on 
a  black  hat  and  a  brown  veil,  and  black  furs.  She 
considered  herself  bravely  in  a  mirror  while  she  drew 
on  her  gloves.  They  were  thick  one-button  gloves, 
absurd  in  their  combined  smallness  and  mannishness. 
That  she  liked  Keating  very  much  she  had  never  de- 
nied to  herself  for  a  moment,  and  with  a  little  laugh 
at  herself,  tempered  by  the  brown  veil,  she  told  her- 
self that  routing  him  out  was  a  game  "  worth  the 


72  FAME-SEEKERS 

candle."  Then,  like  any  other  sensible  woman  who 
is  launching  into  an  act  about  which  the  "  small 
voice  "  whispers  "  reckless,"  she  hurried,  hurried  too 
fast  for  even  her  woman's  way  of  thinking  to  keep 
the  pace  with  her. 


CHAPTER  X 

INVASION 

NATHALIE  knew  where  Keating  had  his  studio  and 
she  had  often  passed  that  way  with  side-long  glances 
into  the  court.  It  was  a  depressing  court,  amaz- 
ingly empty  for  so  small  a  space,  and  sordid  in  neg- 
lect. She  hoped,  always,  that  he  did  not  live  too 
badly.  She  knew  a  good  deal  about  the  hard  side 
of  painters'  lives  and  she  knew  that  the  winter-time 
opened  their  days  with  the  breaking  of  ice  on  the 
buckets,  and  the  warming  of  dead  stoves,  till  hands 
that  must  do  delicate  things  were  roughened  and 
stiff.  But  Nathalie  had  a  level  head  and  she  was  not 
sentimental  over  a  half-hour  of  hardship.  She  knew 
that  the  joy  of  the  evenings  was  worth  the  morning's 
discomfort.  But  to-day,  the  cold  and  the  steady 
snow  made  her  afraid,  made  her  hope  against  hope 
that  she'd  find  Keating  with  a  good  fire  and  a  chair 
to  offer  her.  Not  that  Nathalie  cared  whether  she 
sat  upon  a  Louis  XV  arm-chair  or  a  store-box.  It 
was  Keating's  pride  she  cared  about.  She  climbed 
the  three  flights  of  draughty  stairs  with  a  serious 
face,  and  in  the  cold  and  darkness  of  his  landing 
she  peered  for  his  card  on  the  door. 

73 


74  FAME-SEEKERS 

When  she  heard  Keating  moving  across  the  floor 
towards  her  panic  caught  her  up,  and  she  wished 
she'd  not  come,  wished  there  was  time  to  run.  The 
opened  door  disclosed  him,  palette,  brushes,  paint- 
rags  in  his  hands  and  he  peered  to  find  her  just  as 
she  had  to  find  his  card.  Once  found,  he  opened  the 
door  wide  with  a  genuineness  that  broke  her  panic 
and  made  her  thankful  to  have  come.  So  much  for 
a  woman's  anticipations  and  her  arrivals! 

Keating's  studio  could  scarcely  have  been  called 
"  furnished,"  but  the  tone  of  the  room  was  beautiful 
and  one  corner  was  amusingly  arranged  with  a  shelf, 
bits  of  still-life  and  old  prints,  and  was  warmed  with 
a  glowing,  if  rusty,  old  stove.  Keating  tumbled 
"  back-grounds  "  and  books  off  a  chair  for  Nathalie, 
but  she  shook  her  head  and  sat  on  the  model-stand 
near  the  fire.  "  Don't  trouble,  I  like  it  here,"  and 
she  threw  off  her  furs  with  a  little  air  of  having  come 
in  to  stay  a  while.  "  I  have  come,"  she  paused  and 
gave  him  a  wide  amused  look,  "  to  ask  you  why  you 
have  chosen  to  treat  me  so  abominably  ?  " 

Keating's  manner  indicated  a  mixed  state  of  mind. 
He  was,  evidently,  even  frankly,  glad  to  see  her,  but 
he  seemed  uncomfortable,  kept  glancing  over  his 
shoulder  towards  the  closed  door  of  a  room  that  gave 
upon  the  studio.  Nathalie's  eyes  instinctively  fol- 
lowed the  direction  of  his  and  she  was  interested  to 
hear  someone  moving  about  the  other  side  the  door. 
At  the  same  time  her  eyes  were  caught  and  held  by 


INVASION  75 

an  old  grey  cashmere  shawl  which  had  been  care- 
lessly tossed  across  a  chair  near  the  door. 

"  My  model  is  in  there  getting  dressed  to  go," 
said  Keating  stubbornly.  He  stood  with  his  back  to 
her  getting  the  tea-pot  and  cups  off  the  shelf  to 
make  her  a  cup  of  tea,  so  she  dared  watch  him  as 
keenly  and  with  as  much  amusement  as  she  liked. 
"  So  you've  got  a  model !  Luxurious  young  man !  " 

"  Nothing  very  luxurious  about  her,"  Keating 
laughed  frankly.  It  wanted  so  little  to  trap  him 
into  frankness !  The  proximity  of  a  model  did  not 
greatly  interest  Nathalie  for  she  had  somehow  ac- 
quired, or  absorbed,  an  attitude  of  mind  towards  the 
models  in  the  lives  of  her  young  painter  friends. 
They  existed,  a  class  unique;  were  often  clever  and 
amusing  and  beautiful;  often  made  marks,  good  or 
bad,  upon  the  young  men's  careers,  but,  definitely, 
she  had  concluded  that  they  were  no  concern  of  hers. 
She  passed  them  mentally  with  the  same  amiable  un- 
concern with  which  she  passed  other  strangers  in  the 
street.  But  the  old  shawl  ?  It  was  an  alluring  tone, 
and  it  seemed  to  stir  something  in  Nathalie's  memory. 
"  You  can't  get  out  of  answering  me  by  any  change 
of  subject,  you  know,  Keating,"  she  said,  facing  him 
fairly.  Keating  was  standing  over  the  kettle  as  if 
he  might  force  it  to  boil.  Nathalie  watching  him, 
gave  in  to  a  gay  laugh.  "  Keating,"  she  told  him, 
"  I've  never  known  anybody  who  had  his  own  way  of 
doing  everything  as  you  have!  Let  that  kettle  be. 


76  FAME-SEEKERS 

It's  the  business  of  the  fire  to  boil  the  water.  Give 
your  attention  to  me,  please ! " 

"  I've  been  hard  at  work  this  winter,"  he  said  ab- 
sently. "  Life's  given  me  a  lot  of  trouble  since  I 
used  to  see  you  in  Philadelphia." 

"  Work !  The  sins  that  exhausted  little  word  is 
stretched  to  cover !  Life  and  letters  are  full  of  it ! 
So  have  we  been  at  work.  We  have  not,  therefore, 
ceased  to  be  sympathetic  human  beings.  I  fancy  we 
have  robbed  our  work  of  more  time  to  keep  an  ac- 
count of  you  than  you  of  us." 

**  You  really  think  so  ?  "  and  Keating  smiled.  "  I 
know  a  little  of  what  you  do." 

"Seriously,  Keating,  we  have  been  so  happy  at 
your  successes." 

"  My  successes !  "  he  laughed  shortly.  "  I  have 
sold  nothing." 

"  The  selling  always  comes  last,  doesn't  it  ?  I 
have  several  years'  worth  of  scales  and  exercises  to 
match  all  your  brushes  and  paint-tubes,"  she  sighed. 
"  I  know  all  about  that.  But  you  look  very  tired 
and  thin,  Keating."  She  bent  forward  with  her  chin 
on  her  hand  and  observed  him  kindly.  "  You  are 
ever  so  much  more  —  gaunt,  than  when  I  knew  you 
in  Philadelphia.  It  is  a  pity,"  she  sighed,  "  that 
you  and  Louisa  Garth  are  not  more  like  me  —  or  like 
Burroughs.  Louisa  is  really  becoming  ill  from  too 
much  work  and  too  everlastingly  thinking  about  it. 
You  people  waste  your  nerves  so.  You  use  them  up 


INVASION  77 

for  every  detail.  I  flatter  myself  I  have  an  excel- 
lent and  rather  high-keyed  set  of  nerves  myself,  but 
I  take  precious  care  to  fatten  them  up  and  keep 
them  intact  for  the  times  that  count.  Work  doesn't 
hurt  me  somehow;  it's  my  favourite  food,  and  I  am 
only  ill  without  it.  Poor  Louisa!  She  is  just  the 
sort  of  girl  to  be  victimised  by  the  whole  gamut 
of  artistic  epidemics.  Avril,  with  whom  she  works, 
is  enthusiastic  about  her  progress.  I  suppose  he's 
fallen  in  love  with  her.  Most  men  do.  Not  that  it 
interests  her.  Nothing  stirs  her  but  leather  and 
little  gold  lines.  She's  getting  shockingly  thin. 
No  woman  would  work  as  hard  as  she  does  if  she 
were  working  for  pay.  The  trouble  is  that  she  has 
forgotten  herself,  takes  no  care  of  herself,  goes  trail- 
ing out  in  all  sorts  of  weather  and  sits  all  day  long 
in  that  studio  where  the  air  must  be  poisoned  with 
musty  old  books,  leather,  greasy  presses,  and  the 
group  of  the  aristocrats  of  the  great  un-washed  who 
have  chosen  the  way  of  binding  books.  The  best 
thing  about  music  is  that  you  are  not  required  to 
work  with  musicians  !  " 

Keating  made  no  comment,  and  Nathalie,  feeling  a 
little  flat,  got  up  and  walked  to  his  easel.  Upon  it 
was  the  study  of  a  dark  rough-haired  girl,  her  pro- 
file silhouetted  against  the  light  and  the  grey  shawl 
about  her  shoulders.  All  at  once  the  identity  of  the 
shawl  came  home  to  Nathalie  and  she  straightened. 
For  once  in  a  way,  she  watched  for  the  passing  of 


78  FAME-SEEKERS 

a  model  with  lively  interest.  Was  it,  possibly,  the 
steerage  girl  that  Louisa,  venturing,  had  caught 
Keating  rather  more  than  talking  with? 

The  bedroom  door  opened  brusquely  and  the  girl 
came  out  and  walked  across  the  studio  to  the  hall 
door.  She  returned  Nathalie's  nod  curtly  and  stood 
a  moment  with  her  dark  eyes  upon  Keating.  "  Come 
to-morrow  at  the  usual  time,"  he  called  over  his 
shoulder.  The  kettle  had  boiled  and  he  was  pour- 
ing the  water  over  the  tea-leaves.  The  girl  nodded 
and  went  out  closing  the  door  sharply  behind  her. 

Nathalie  absorbed  Keating's  canvas  in  silence. 
"  Interesting  head  you  have  made  of  her,  Keating," 
she  said  at  last.  "  It  is  always  a  marvel  to  me  how 
you  painters  arrive  at  anything  when  I  see  your 
models.  You've  certainly  got  the  trick  of  making 
something  out  of  nothing.  Being  a  rank  outsider 
I'm  not  able  to  be  very  democratic  about  picture  sub- 
jects." She  paused  flushing  to  think  what  Bur- 
roughs would  say  to  her  if  he  were  to  hear  her 
"  breaking  silence  before  art."  But  Nathalie  wasn't 
talking  art  as  much  as  she  was  talking  woman  and 
she  went  on  in  spite  of  her  convictions,  or  of  the  ac- 
cusing vision  of  Burroughs.  "  I've  heard  more 
than  once,  Keating,  that  no  one  but  a  painter  has  any 
business  having  opinions  about  painting.  But  all 
women  have  opinions  about  all  things  and  we've  got 
to  speak  'em  before  we  can  get  rid  of  them.  We 
really  don't  count  upon  being  impressive.  Bur- 


INVASION  79 

roughs  tells  me  that  musicians  always  have  excruciat- 
ing taste  in  pictures  —  but  it  seems  to  me  that  there 
is  just  the  same  difference  between  a  well-painted 
picture  of  a  peasant  and  a  well-painted  picture  of 
a  woman  of  culture  that  there  is  —  good  gracious !  " 
she  spread  her  hands  and  raised  her  shoulders.  "  I 
have  gotten  in  deep !  "  She  hesitated,  acting  a  little 
to  give  herself  time  to  think.  Keating's  evident 
poverty  gave  her  small  concern ;  that  had  come  and 
would  go;  but  the  picture  of  the  peasant  girl  with 
her  drooping  under-lip  dangerously  veering  to  the 
sentimental,  had  startled  her.  She  was  determined 
to  put  the  young  woman  and  her  old  shawl  where 
they  belonged  in  Keating's  estimation  if  she  could. 
She  had  seen  more  than  one  young  man  grow  old  in 
his  youth  from  having  fallen  into  the  deadly  groove 
of  the  peasant-picture  trade.  Every  Salon  with  its 
mile  on  mile  of  peasant-pictures  had  convinced 
Nathalie  that  in  the  saving  of  young  painters  was, 
had  been,  and  would  always  be  the  fine  hand  of 
some  woman  as  fine,  or  finer,  than  himself.  "  You 
see,"  she  laughed  as  she  took  her  cup  of  tea  and  sat 
again  on  the  model  stand,  "  I  can't  see  why  a  man 
of  brain  should  any  more  choose  to  eternally  paint  the 
peasant  than  he  should  choose  to  eternally  —  have 
her  around ! "  Just  what  was  she  daring  to  talk 
about  ?  she  asked  herself.  "  I  should  think  they'd 
bore  a  man  so !  You  are  calling  me  a  Philistine,  and 
no  doubt,  I  am !  What  are  you  sending  to  the  Salon 


80  FAME-SEEKERS 

this  year?  "  she  asked  suddenly  with  an  interested 
swerve  away  from  the  canvas  on  the  easel  which 
adroitly  excluded  it  from  her  consciousness  as  a  pos- 
sibility. 

"  I  hardly  know,"  he  answered,  watching  her  with 
a  rather  disconcerting  smile.  "  Supposing,"  he  sug- 
gested, "  that  the  painter  himself  is  a  —  peasant  ? 
There  was  Millet !  " 

"  Ah,  yes,"  Nathalie  agreed  with  a  return  of  the 
enigmatical  smile,  "  there  was  Millet.  What  of  it  ?  " 
She  enjoyed  a  fight  with  Keating  and  she  faced  him 
squarely  across  her  teacup.  "  How  do  you  know 
what  Millet  wanted,  even  if  he  had  anything  to  do 
with  the  case.  I  certainly,"  she  laughed,  "  wouldn't 
want  to  fiddle  my  family,  or  my  family's  family." 

"Will  you  pose  for  me?"  demanded  Keating. 

"  I  will  pose  for  you,  if  you  like,  but  I  should  think 
you  would  like  to  paint  Louisa,"  answered  Nathalie, 
with  a  disarming  absence  of  any  sentiment  in  her 
mildly  pitched  voice,  except  her  natural  modesty  and 
her  genuine  appreciation  of  her  friend's  superior 
qualities  in  the  way  of  beauty,  and  of  clothes. 

Keating  gasped,  could  not  even  pretend  to  con- 
ceal his  gasping.  He  took  Nathalie's  cup  which  she 
held  towards  him  for  more  tea  and  absently  put  it 
in  its  place  on  the  shelf. 

"  Dear  me,  Keating !  "  Nathalie  chuckled.  "  Do 
you  ever  wash  them?  Beside,  I  want  another  cup. 
Better  leave  out  the  sugar,"  she  suggested,  "  because 


"THE  CHANGE  IN  HER  IS  AS  SUBTLE  AS  SHE  IS  HERSELF" 


INVASION  81 

jour  next  guest  might  not  like  her  tea  with  sugar." 
Keating  obediently  took  the  cup  down  again  and 
smiled  at  her  banter  so  remotely  that  she  saw  it  had 
only  half  reached  him.  "  Is  Miss  Garth  really  ill  ?  " 
he  demanded,  suddenly  raising  his  eyes  to  hers. 

It  was  Nathalie's  turn  to  start.  So  this  reticent 
young  man  had  ears  after  all.  She  moved  along  the 
model-stand  till  she  sat  quite  near  him,  then  she 
bent  towards  him,  putting  into  the  movement  and  her 
voice  all  of  the  charm  of  a  young  woman  intimately 
talking  something  over  that  it  would  be  as  well  not 
to  talk  of  at  all.  "  It  is  pretty  difficult  to  tell  you 
what  I  mean  about  Louisa,  because  the  change  in  her 
is  as  subtle  as  she  is  herself.  All  through  the  au- 
tumn and  the  first  of  the  winter  she  did  nothing  but 
prowl  about  in  places  she  had  no  business  to  be 
alone,  and  at  hours  that  drove  me  into  terror.  I 
thought  she  had  given  up  the  idea  of  work  altogether. 
Of  course,  it  was  just  ignorance,  and  her  own  sweet- 
ness, that  made  her  so  foolish  and  fearless.  Then, 
one  night,  after  she  had  been  working  a  little  while 
at  Avril's,  and  was,  I  suspected,  pretty  tired  of  it, 
she  came  home  very  late  to  dinner.  She  came  in  like 
a  lamb,  Keating,  and  by  her  penitence  took  all  the 
wind  out  of  my  tempest.  Something,  I've  not  the 
ghost  of  an  idea  what,  had  happened  to  her.  She 
was  pale  and  aglow  all  at  the  same  time,  if  that 
makes  sense.  And,  from  that  night,  she  has  fairly 
worked  herself  down  to  the  bone.  No  one  could  in 


82  FAME-SEEKERS 

justice  accuse  her  of  dabbling  any  more.  I'm  ear- 
nest and  industrious,  but  I  do  care  for  my  dinners 
and  my  diversions.  She  may  be  human,  but  she  is 
ceasing  to  look  it.  She  was  always  sort  of  flower- 
like  —  and  tall-stemmed,  and  that's  charming,  but 
now  she's  —  breakable  —  and  she  does  worry  me !  " 

"  She  has  no  business  to  work  at  all,"  said  Keat- 
ing brusquely.  He  put  a  lump  or  two  of  coal  on 
the  fire  with  the  care  of  a  fixed  habit  of  economy  that 
stirred  Nathalie's  attention  and  drew  her  mind  a 
moment  from  Louisa,  then  he  sat  back  in  his  chair 
and  stared  moodily  into  the  fire  over  folded  arms. 

"  But,  why  ?  "  Nathalie  demanded  after  a  mo- 
ment. 

"  Why  ?  "  and  Keating  shot  her  a  glance.  "  Be- 
cause to  do  anything  well  means  going  through  hell 
first.  It's  hard  enough,  and  to  spare,  for  a  man. 
Her  beauty's  her  talent ;  let  her  take  care  of  it.  Let 
her  guard  it  for  us  poor  devils  to  look  for- 
ward to.  A  man  wants  something  more  or  less  than 
the  sake  of  work  to  slave  for,  doesn't  he  ?  "  His 
words  came  out  like  hammer-strokes;  without  vio- 
lence, but  steadily,  as  if  he  had  thought  of  them  a 
long  time  and  had  no  more  doubt. 

Nathalie  winced  under  the  stroke  of  realising  anew 
what  mere  beauty  gains  for  a  woman  with  a  man, 
then  gave  her  mind  back  to  Keating's  situation. 
She  eyed  Keating  as  if  he  were  a  discovery,  treated 
him  with  gay  amusement.  "  Keating,  you  are  a 


INVASION  83 

musty,  old-fashioned  man.  Of  course  she  may  work 
if  she  likes ;  though  I  don't  believe  I'd  like,  if  I  were 
as  good-looking  as  Louisa !  "  She  thought  seriously 
for  a  moment,  then  lifted  her  eyes  to  his.  "  I  wish 
you  would  persuade  her  to  pose  for  you,"  she  said 
as  if  the  idea  had  for  the  first  time  actually  taken 
hold  of  her.  "  She'd  scarcely  refuse  you  if  you  let 
her  understand  how  it  would  help  you  to  send  a  tell- 
ing portrait  to  the  Salon,  and  it  would  serve  the 
double  purpose  of  keeping  her  away  from  her  work. 
Her  Salon  book  is  almost  ready  and  half  a  day  is 
quite  as  much  as  she  needs  for  practice.  I  could 
even  speak  to  Monsieur  Avril  and  tell  him  that  we 
are  concerned  about  her.  She  has  bewitching  clothes ; 
wonderful  things  for  painting  I  should  think. 
Louisa's  one  of  the  women  with  money  who  select  the 
clothes  the  money  pays  for  with  her  individual  feel- 
ing." 

Keating's  eyes  were  upon  Nathalie,  but  she  real- 
ised that  he  was  scarcely  listening,  some  sentence  she 
had  uttered  holding  him,  and  she  did  not  know  which 
one. 

"  Is  she  Salon-mad,  too ! "  Keating  looked  dis- 
mayed. As  she  talked  a  dark  flush  had  risen  over 
his  neck  and  face.  He  bent  over  his  pipe  and  stuffed 
in  the  tobacco  with  a  threatening  force,  then  all  at 
once  he  searched  Nathalie's  face  with  a  glance  like 
steel.  "  Does  Miss  Garth  know  that  you  are  here 
this  afternoon  ?  " 


84  FAME-SEEKERS 

Nathalie  flushed  as  dark  as  he  and  her  voice  shook 
in  her  effort  to  control  her  indignation.  "  That," 
she  declared,  "  is  very  nearly  stupid  of  you,  Keat- 
ing." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Keating  doggedly,  "  but  my 
position  is  a  little  awkward  - —  and  it  was  the  natural 
thing  to  wonder.  I  am  not  tamed  enough  to  have 
kept  it  to  myself." 

"  Now  that  you  have  said  a  thing  like  that  I  don't 
in  the  least  mind  telling  you  what  I  think."  Nathalie 
put  down  her  cup,  for  her  hands  were  unsteady. 
"  You  have  treated  her  and  me,  outrageously.  You 
have  avoided  people  who  would  have  done  you  no 
harm  at  all.  Quite  the  contrary.  To  me  it  does  not 
so  much  matter,  though  you  have  been  equally  un- 
kind. You  see,  we  plain  women  gain  a  consoling 
second-sight.  We  come  to  see  through  your  forget- 
fulness  very  sharply.  While  you  are  forgetting  us 
you  give  yourselves  away  to  us !  I  am  perfectly  able 
to  see  that  your  seeming  negligence  and  indifference 
has  a  very  flattering  lining." 

Keating  scrutinised  her  in  comical  distress. 
"  But,"  he  blurted,  "  you  aren't  plain !  " 

"  Christopher  Columbus,  discoverer  of  hidden 
beauty !  "  she  bowed  to  him  tartly,  but  flushed  all 
the  same.  "  A  girl  like  Louisa  Garth  has  a  right  to 
another  sort  of  treatment,"  she  insisted. 

"  A  right !  I'm  hanged  if  she  has,"  and  Keating 
sent  a  cloud  of  pipe  smoke  around  his  head. 


INVASION  85 

Nathalie  stood  and  began  pulling  on  her  gloves. 
"  Pretending's  no  good,  Keating.  Certainly  Louisa 
has  a  right  to  be  treated  differently.  She  is  differ- 
ent." She  put  on  her  coat  and  her  furs,  and  glanced 
at  the  window  where  the  light  had  greyed  into  dusk, 
where  the  bare  branches  and  the  sky,  and  the  quietly 
falling  snow  shut  them  in  like  a  beautiful  decoration, 
seemed  made,  for  the  moment,  for  the  quiet  grey 
room. 

"  I  must  go.  I  don't  like  Louisa  to  get  in  ahead 
of  me.  I  can't  bully  her  then !  " 

"  You  are  angry  with  me  ?  "  Keating  got  to  his 
feet  and  faced  her  impulsively. 

"  I  am ! "  she  smiled  as  she  lowered  her  veil. 

"  May  I  have  a  chance  to  make  up  for  my  bad 
behaviour  ?  "  he  asked.  "  You  must  be  good  enough 
to  see  that  it  isn't  easy  to  ask  after  all  this  time." 

Nathalie  held  out  her  hand.  "That,"  she  con- 
fessed, "  is  just  what  I  came  for."  She  moved  to- 
wards the  door,  Keating  walking  by  her  side.  "  If 
you  don't  mind,  I'd  rather  Louisa  should  not  know 
that  I  have  been  here  this  afternoon.  It  wasn't  so 
easy  to  come,  you  know,"  she  laughed.  "  It  has 
taken  me  all  the  winter  to  make  up  my  mind.  But 
Burroughs  has  vowed  not  to  ask  you  again,  so  what 
else  was  there  to  do?  I  suppose  that  it  took  just 
such  a  stormy  day  as  this  to  give  me  the  courage  at 
last!  Women  like  their  chosen  tasks  to  be  as  hard, 
and  dramatic,  as  possible !  I  hate  getting  wet,  and 


86  FAME-SEEKERS 

going  out  in  storms.  So,  I  came  just  to-day!  I'm 
nothing  if  not  logical."  She  paused  a  moment  star- 
ing down  at  a  crack  in  the  dark  floor,  a  crack  en- 
riched with  bits  of  paint  left  by  more  than  one  gen- 
eration of  trying  and  talent.  "  It  must  be  man- 
aged, and  to  manage  you  two  trying  people,  you 
and  Louisa  Garth,  wants  all  of  one  person's  tact  and 
talent.  You'd  be  the  death  of  any  perfectly  hon- 
est, nice  person."  She  laughed  at  him,  and  gave  her 
own  place  in  the  circumstance  all  of  her  sympathy. 
"  I'll  tell  you  how !  To-night  Burroughs  is  coming 
down  to  go  over  some  new  music  with  me.  I'll 
fib  to  them.  It  won't  be  quite  the  first  time,  so 
I  suppose  I  can  go  through  with  it.  I'll  say  that 
you  happened  to  be  taking  the  air  in  the  Luxembourg 
Gardens  just  as  I  happened  to  be  taking  the  air — " 
They  gazed  at  the  storm-bound  windows  and  laughed 
together. 

Keating  squared  his  shoulders.  "  I  can  humble 
myself  when  I  must,"  he  said.  "  It  really  seems  to 
me  that  it  is  about  time  for  me  to  shoulder  a  little 
of  the  responsibility." 

Nathalie  looked  at  him  and  shook  her  head  in  real 
concern.  "  You  had  better  keep  still,  Keating,  and 
leave  it  to  me.  You'd  make  a  porridge  of  it! 
Louisa  would  go  away  from  me  to  live  and  we'd  never 
speak  to  one  another  again,  any  of  us!  Good- 
night," she  laughed,  shaking  hands.  "  I'll  let  you 
know  what  story  I  tell  so  you  needn't  spoil  it  with 


INVASION  87 

another.  I'll  write  you  to-morrow,"  and  she  hur- 
ried across  the  landing,  down  the  stairs,  and  out  into 
the  soft  snowy  dusk,  Keating  watching  her  from  the 
landing. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  WHITE   LIE 

THE  snow  had  whirled  away  and  had  left  one  of  those 
deep,  winter-locked  nights  when  consciousness  of  the 
cold  outside  makes  of  a  fire,  arm-chairs  and  congenial 
people  about  the  best  thing  in  the  world.  It  was 
growing  late  and  Burroughs,  realising  that  he  must 
soon  go  home,  slipped  deeper  into  his  chair  that 
he  might  get  the  very  best  of  his  last  moments. 
Louisa  was  as  remote  of  mood  as  the  night  outside 
and  Burroughs  considered  her  through  the  smoke 
of  his  pipe  with  a  deepening  concern.  Certainly 
she  had  changed  very  much  during  the  winter.  As 
for  Louisa,  she  accepted  Burroughs'  nearly  daily 
presence  in  the  place  as  naturally  as  she  accepted  the 
steady  fire,  or  any  other  agreeable  or  convenient 
thing  which  there  seemed  no  reason  for  rejecting. 

Nathalie,  in  the  corner  behind  the  piano,  watched 
them  furtively  while  she  put  her  music  away.  She 
knew  better  than  the  average  young  woman  of  her 
age  that  practice  makes  perfect  in  more  ways  than 
the  mere  way  of  music,  and,  frank  little  person  that 
she  was,  she  considered  the  lie  she  was  about  to  tell 
with  terror.  She  could  set  it  going,  could  keep  it 

88 


A  WHITE  LIE  89 

consistent  through  the  telling,  but  what  if  Bur- 
roughs stayed  to  talk  it  over?  What  if  they  ques- 
tioned her?  When  Burroughs  stirred  to  go  she 
knew  that  the  time  had  come  and  with  a  smile  at  her 
own  expense  she  came  out  of  her  corner  and  draw- 
ing a  low  chair  up  between  them,  she  sat  upon  it 
with  her  back  to  the  light.  She  became  overly  cosy, 
and  Burroughs  considered  her,  for  hers  was  the 
manner  which  is  to  the  wise  man  among  women  al- 
ways to  be  suspected. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  till  just  the  right  moment 
to  tell  you  two  something  very  interesting !  "  she  be- 
gan. 

Burroughs'  attentiveness  deepened. 

"Why,  just  the  right  moment?"  Louisa  smiled 
drowsily. 

Nathalie  made  a  gesture  so  wide  that  it  all  but 
unbalanced  her.  "  Because  what  I  have  to  tell  is 
really  surprising,  and  I  wanted  to  make  my  effect ! 
Who,  who,  do  you  two  suppose  that  I  saw  this  after- 
noon ?  " 

Burroughs  eyed  her  keenly,  amusement  dancing  in 
his  eyes.  "  Are  we  to  guess  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  Nathalie  laughed,  "  we  are  much  too 
old  to  play  guessing-games.  I  — "  she  looked  bra- 
zenly from  one  to  the  other  — "  I  met  Keating !  " 

"  The  devil  you  did,"  said  Burroughs.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon,"  he  glanced  at  Louisa. 

Louisa  stiffened  and  her  hands  held  tight  to  one 


90  FAME-SEEKERS 

another  in  the  folds  of  her  dress.  Her  small  face 
seemed  all  eyes  as  she  absorbed  Nathalie.  "  You 
met  —  Mr.  Keating?  " 

Nathalie  plunged  ahead  full-tilt.  She  nodded 
vigorously,  that  being  less  difficult  than  the  speak- 
ing of  the  lie.  "  And  if  you  are  able  to  believe  me, 
he  was  glad  to  see  me,  and  meek  as  Mary's  little 
lamb.  He  really  was !  And  before  he  —  left  me," 
she  had  the  grace  to  gulp  over  the  twisted  truth, 
"  he  asked  me  if  there  was  any  chance  of  our  for- 
giving him,  if  we'd  let  him  in  —  ungracious  as  he 
had  been  —  out  of  the  cold !  There  is  a  triumph 
for  us,  if  you  like ! " 

Louisa  slipped  back  into  her  chair,  and  resting 
her  chin  on  her  hand  she  stared,  with  a  curious  smile, 
into  the  fire.  She  said  nothing. 

"  Poor  old  Keating,"  Burroughs  sighed  abstract- 
edly. "  Did  it  strike  you,"  he  bent  forward  and 
looked  seriously  into  Nathalie's  eyes,  "  that  he 
looked  especially  hard  up,  or  shabby  ?  " 

Nathalie  caught  herself.  "  No,"  she  said  care- 
fully, "  he  was  —  warmly  dressed :  the  same  old 
over-coat,  to  be  sure!  Of  course  there  wasn't  much 
time.  It  —  was  a  stormy  afternoon,  you  know." 

Burroughs  gave  in  to  a  great  laugh,  then  he 
pulled  at  his  moustache  and  looked  very  solemnly 
at  Nathalie.  "  Yes,  I  know.  It  was  a  stormy  after- 
noon." 

Do    what    she    would    Burroughs'    mirth    caught 


A  WHITE  LIE  91 

Nathalie,  and  for  an  instant  got  the  better  of 
caution.  Louisa  looked  from  one  to  the  other, 
puzzled,  then  with  a  smile  she  let  their  laughing  pass 
without  comment.  Nathalie  smoothed  her  braids 
and  rearranged  a  comb  before  she  spoke  again. 
Clothes  serve  a  sort  of  end  in  giving  little  things  to 
do  to  embarrassed  hands.  "  I  told  him,"  her  voice 
broke  in  an  after-wave  of  laughing,  "  that  for  me  his 
snubbing  had  been  as  water  on  a  duck's  back,  but 
that  I'd  have  to  ask  Louisa ! " 

"  Your  mode  of  speech,"  Burroughs  remarked, 
"  is  nothing  less  than  primitive  to-night.  First  we 
had  Mary's  lamb,  and  now  we  have  the  duck  out  in 
the  wet.  You  deeply  interest  me ! "  he  stared  her 
down. 

"  I'm  so  glad,"  and  Nathalie  gave  him  a  gay  if 
guilty  smile.  "  I  told  Keating  that  Louisa  was  giv- 
ing herself  body  and  soul  to  her  books,  so  I'd  have 
to  talk  it  over  with  her.  I  added  that  if  she'd  for- 
give him  too,  he  might  begin  his  penitence  by  din- 
ing with  us  next  Saturday  night.  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  why  I  said  Saturday  except  for  an  in-born 
notion  that  one  never  does  know  what  to  do  with  a 
Saturday  night." 

"  And  now,"  chuckled  Burroughs,  "  we  are  about 
to  add  the  mother-tub  to  the  lamb  and  the  duck. 
This,"  he  considered  her  broadly,  "  is  babbling  sec- 
ond childhood!  Are  you  sure  that  you  really  saw 
Keating?  " 


93  FAME-SEEKERS 

Louisa  broke  in  on  the  banter  with  her  quiet  voice. 
"  I'm  really  glad  that  he  is  coming,"  she  said. 
"  You  both  like  him,  and  it's  too  bad  that  he  should 
have  been  kept  away  for  a  mere  —  notion.  We  three 
have  been  sitting  here  so  long  in  our  stove-tropics, 
and  in  such  utter  harmony,  that  we've  grown  rather 
vapid,  have  we  not?  It's  a  dear  old  stove,"  she 
smiled  and  spread  her  hands  towards  the  glow.  "  It 
is  even  the  only  stove  that  I  have  ever  loved,  but 
that  is  no  reason  for  being  selfish  about  it.  But  do 
you  know  that  I  nearly  dread  having  our  peace  dis- 
turbed. We'll  never  quite  find  it  again,  will  we?  " 
She  put  her  head  back  and  looked  up  at  the  great 
shadowy  skylight  where  the  dull  glow  of  the  fire  and 
rose-shaded  lamps  were  turning  the  snow-covered 
glass  into  the  warm,  deep  greys  of  a  cameo. 

Nathalie  pressed  her  hands  together  in  relief. 
The  thing  was  actually  done  with  no  questions,  no 
incredulity  from  Louisa!  Of  course  Burroughs  had 
seen  through  her,  had  been  uncomfortably  amused, 
but  that  did  not  matter.  "  I'll  write  him  to-morrow 
morning,"  she  said,  and  was  appalled  at  the  glibly 
added  little  lie.  The  letter  was  written,  stamped 
even,  and  waiting  at  the  moment  under  her  pin-cush- 
ion to  be  posted.  She  gave  a  warm  hand  to  Bur- 
roughs but  avoided  his  eyes.  "  It  will  be  Saturday 
night  then.  And  please,  Burroughs,  be  prompt.  It 
must  be  a  fatted  calf,  of  course,  and  you  know  our 
cooking-stove  is  no  bigger  than  a  walking  hat." 


A  WHITE  LIE  93 

Burroughs  considered  her  gravely.  "  And  now 
to  the  lamb,  the  duck  and  the  mother-tub  we  add  the 
f atted-calf !  "  Then  he  got  out  and  left  Nathalie 
to  get  through  her  own  good-nights  with  Louisa. 
She  accomplished  a  hasty  retreat  and  left  Louisa, 
the  last  one  by  the  stove.  Nathalie  could  hear  her, 
a  few  minutes  later,  moving  about  and  putting  out 
the  lights,  then  climbing  up  the  little  spiral  stair- 
way, and,  to  save  her,  she  could  not  gather  whether 
Keating's  coming  was  welcome  to  Louisa  or  not. 


CHAPTER  XII 

CLOTHES 

IT  was  Saturday  afternoon  and  nearly  six  o'clock. 
The  table  was  arranged  in  the  alcove,  was  charming 
too  —  a  charming  promise  done  in  damask,  rose- 
shaded  light  and  tea-roses.  Nathalie  and  Louisa 
were  idling  by  the  fire  a  while  before  going  to  their 
rooms  to  dress.  Louisa  had  been  at  home  all  day, 
reading,  or  lying  on  the  couch  while  Nathalie  prac- 
tised. The  weather  was  stormy  and  the  studio 
seemed  to  fold  them  in  in  comfort.  It  was  the  first 
time  since  Louisa's  mysterious  plunge  into  work  that 
she  had  stayed  away  from  Avril's,  and  by  way  of 
reason  she  had  simply  said  "  I'm  lazy."  She  looked 
fresher  and  more  human,  Nathalie  thought,  than  for 
weeks  past,  and  she  was  more  than  ever  lovely  in  a 
smoky  sort  of  silk  stuff  —  too  artful  to  be  called  a 
mere  dress  —  that  was  held  to  her  slim  figure  more 
by  "  eternal  fitness  "  between  Louisa  and  the  stuff 
than  by  its  close  girdle  of  silvery  satin. 

Nathalie  considered  her,  and  appreciated  her  as 
a  work  of  art,  but  she  wondered  and  wondered  if 
Louisa  were  not,  in  clothes  and  other  things,  more 
artful  than  artistic.  "  Shall  you  pose  for  Keating, 
Louisa,  if  he  asks  you  to?  " 

94 


CLOTHES  95 

"  I  shall,"  Louisa  smiled. 

"  That  is  nice  of  you ! "  and  Nathalie  felt,  as  she 
looked,  flustered  by  this  complete  giving  in. 

Louisa  considered  her,  amused.  "  I  shall  not  pose 
for  Mr.  Keating  as  his  friend,  but  I'm  going  to  order 
a  portrait  —  then  I  think  that  I'll  give  it  to  you  for 
a  birthday  present.  Yes  ?  " 

Nathalie  gasped.  "  When  have  you  thought  all 
that  out?  What  a  beautiful  idea!  It  will  help 
him  as  much  as  it  will  please  me.  But  — "  she  stared 
at  Louisa  curiously,  "  I  wonder  if  he'll  do  it  —  that 
way?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  Louisa  looked  amazed. 

"  Oh,"  Nathalie's  voice  broke  and  slipped  over  the 
hopelessness  of  making  Louisa  understand  the  char- 
acter of  an  unusual  man,  "  you  don't  realise  Keating 
one  bit,  my  dear  girl !  " 

"  But,"  Louisa  laughed,  then  grew  serious,  "  aren't 
painters  open  to  orders  ?  " 

Nathalie  shook  her  head.  "  No,  they  aren't,"  she 
declared.  "  If  you  ask  him,  and  if  he  paints  you, 
what  shall  you  wear?  "  She  veered  to  the  seemingly 
trivial  question  with  a  seriousness  that  drew  another 
laugh  from  Louisa.  Nathalie  held  herself  tight. 
"  You  see,"  and  she  took  in  the  line  of  Louisa's  soft 
dress,  "  I  imagine  that  Keating  doesn't  know  much 
about  women's  clothes.  Do  try  to  understand  what 
I  am  driving  it,  'Wisa.  You  see,  it  takes  a  thief  to 
catch  a  thief.  That's  easy,  isn't  it?  Well,  it  takes 


96  FAME-SEEKERS 

a  swell  to  catch  a  swell!  Now,  that  thing  you  have 
on  is  a  dream,  and  a  sophisticated  dream,  but  if  it 
were  painted  without  its  worldliness  of  flow  and  line 
it  would  merely  look  like  some  art  student's  higherly- 
educated  paint-apron,  wouldn't  it?  It  is  so  ab- 
surdly important ! "  she  sighed.  "  It  seems  to  me 
that  if  Keating  could  get  a  really  stunning  thing 
of  you  it  might  just  about  make  him.  He  won't 
realise  it,  so  we  must,  don't  you  see?  They  never 
realise  anything  —  painters !  They  only  paint. 
Burroughs  does  because  he's  as  much  of  a  dozen  other 
things  as  he  is  a  painter.  I  don't  suppose  he's  ac- 
tually much  of  a  painter.  Anyway,  'Wisa,  do  you 
think  that  a  portrait  of  you  in  a  subtle  dress  that 
he  might  not  quite  understand  would  do  as  much  for 
Keating,  would  get  him  orders,  I  mean,  as  would 
something  —  oh,  dear,  what  an  unholy  question !  " 
Nathalie  dabbed  the  poker  into  the  fire  till  the  sparks 
glittered.  "  I  loathe  myself  for  such  talk,  such  ut- 
terly disrespectful  plotting.  I  seem  to  have  no  more 
veneration  for  art  than  any  ordinary  Philistine.  As 
for  Keating  himself — "  She  spread  her  hands, 
then  put  the  poker  back  in  the  rack.  "  I'm  afraid 
I'm  ridiculous ! " 

Louisa  looked  on.  "What  sort  of  dress  do  you 
think  I  should  wear  to  be  painted  in,  Nat?  " 

"  One  thing  I  know.  If  Keating  sees  you  in  a 
thing  like  that  he'll  want  to  paint  it.  Then  he'll 
miss  it.  I  mean  that  he'd  be  more  likely  to  get 


CLOTHES  97 

something  stirring  out  of  a  more  frankly  stirring 
frock.  Don't  you  see  ?  "  She  faced  Louisa.  "  It 
must  get  to  the  line  in  the  Salon,  and  it  must  be 
marked  *  loaned  J  and  it  must  look  as  if  it  cost  about 
a  thousand  dollars  to  the  square  inch.  It's  all  wrong, 
of  course,  but  so  are  a  lot  of  other  things  all  wrong, 
and  there's  nothing  more  all  wrong  than  the  ideas 
of  the  people  who  get  their  portraits  painted. 
Keating  wouldn't  bother  with  them,  he'd  tell  them 
to  go  hang,  so  it's  up  to  us  to  bother  for  him." 

Louisa  put  her  arms  over  her  head  and  smiled 
quietly  into  the  fire.  "  Do  you  suppose,  Nat,"  she 
said  suddenly,  giving  her  eyes  frankly  to  Nathalie, 
"  that  I  haven't  thought  of  all  that?  " 

"  Have  you  ?  "  said  Nathalie  slowly.  Then,  be- 
cause the  moment  had  grown  somehow  too  intimate 
for  easy  breathing  she  wandered  off  up  on  a  platitude. 
"  Isn't  it  too  stupendous  the  power  that  money 
might  have  along  with  good  taste ! " 

Louisa  did  not  answer.  She  looked  at  the  clock, 
then  stood  by  the  stove.  "  It's  time  to  dress,  Nat. 
But,"  she  spread  her  hands  to  the  warmth,  "  I  don't 
mind  telling  you  that  I've  been  thinking  those  same 
things  over  ever  since  I  got  the  idea  of  having  a 
portrait.  I've  been  plotting  with  clothes  for  the 
making  of  Mr.  Keating !  It  is  absurd.  But  it  seems 
to  me  that  women  have  a  good  many  absurd  things 
to  do.  The  thing  is,  no  doubt,  to  keep  still  about 
them!" 


98  FAME-SEEKERS 

"  He'd  riddle  us  if  he  knew,"  said  Nathalie. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  Louisa.  "  They  know, 
they  must  know.  I  think  they  don't  even  mind,  as 
long  as  we  keep  still." 

"  Cynic !  "  grumbled  Nathalie. 

"  Not  yet,"  sighed  Louisa,  "  but  I'm  afraid  I'm 
going  to  be.  A  good,  a  real  cynic  always  laughs, 
doesn't  he,  Nat?  The  fact  is,  that  I  am  going  to 
put  on  the  dress  to-night  in  which  I  want  to  be 
painted.  I,"  she  laughed,  "  I  am  going  to  be  per- 
fectly dazzling.  I  am  going  to  be  all  the  revelations 
in  one  dress.  I  shall,  of  course,  be  shockingly  over- 
dressed. Will  Burroughs  will  think  I've  lost  both 
mind  and  manners.  I  should  have  written  him  an 
explanation,  a  warning.  When  I  think  of  our  one 
servant,  or  our  domestic  stock  I  blush  for  the  dress 
that  is  this  moment  lying  on  my  bed  up  in  that 
balcony." 

Nathalie  looked  frightened. 

"  I  think  it's  going  to  be  rather  funny,  don't  you, 
Nat?  I  have  a  motive  to  give  me  courage.  When 
I  think  of  the  failure  Keating's  career  would  in- 
evitably be  except  for  wise  you  and  me  —  !  Do  you 
imagine  that  he'd  appreciate  our  plotting?  Per- 
haps he'll  never  realise  it  the  faintest  bit;  —  just 
take  the  pleasant  consequences,  and  their  profit,  unto 
himself  without  thinking  at  all  about  it.  That  would 
be  man-like ! " 

"  I  know  some  serene  failures  —  men,  too,  Louisa 


CLOTHES  99 

—  who  would  mightily  resent  our  meddling,"  Natha- 
lie sighed. 

Louisa  smiled  down  upon  Nathalie.  "  All  the  fail- 
ures, serene  or  discontented,  have  gone  cloud-chasing 
in  their  beginnings,  haven't  they,  Nat?  " 

Nathalie  considered  her.  "  You've  made  sad 
strides  this  winter,  'Wisa ! "  she  said  curiously. 

"  I  have,"  agreed  Louisa.  "  I  have  also  come  into 
a  certain  serenity  not  denied  even  to  certain  fail- 
ures ! " 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  said  Nathalie.  "  I  do 
know  that  nine  out  of  ten  of  the  so-called  '  portraits  * 
in  the  Salon  get  on  my  nerves.  They  are  either 
models  trying  to  look  as  if  they  were  used  to  their 
clothes,  or  they  are  the  painter's  wives,  their  made- 
over  clothes  disguised  under  colour  effects,  and  al- 
ways so  dowdy,  and  so  tired-eyed." 

"  Well,  we  shall  do  better  for  him  than  that,"  de- 
clared Louisa. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Nathalie  slowly,  "  if  Keating 
has  any  evening  clothes  ?  " 

"  But,"  Louisa  stared,  "  of  course  he  has.  How 
absurd !  " 

"  But,"  Nathalie  insisted,  "  I  know  any  number  of 
men  who  have  not,  and  it  isn't  absurd  at  all." 
Nathalie  gazed  stubbornly  into  the  fire  and  with  an 
ardour  that  women  wisely  confess  only  to  the  flames. 

Louisa  dropped  her  eyes.  "  That  would  be  — 
awkward,"  She  laughed  dizzily,  then  looked  at 


100  FAME-SEEKERS 

Nathalie  as  if  to  be  sure  that  she  was  serious. 
"  Really,  it  is  too  ridiculous  to  consider,"  she  de- 
clared, a  coolness  slipping  across  her  voice.  "  If 
he  has  none  it  is  certainly  time  that  he  realised  the 
necessity  of  getting  some.  Why,  my  dear  child, 
evening  clothes  are  as  much  to  be  taken  for  granted 
as  napkins  at  the  table!  Will  Burroughs  always 
dresses  when  he  comes  to  dine  with  us." 

"  Burroughs  !  "  Nathalie  grumbled.  "  Of  course 
he  does.  What  has  that  to  do  with  it  I'd  like  to 
know  ?  "  She  imagined  Keating's  parental  dinner- 
table,  probably  covered  with  checkered  oilcloth,  and 
if  napkins  at  all,  coloured  ones.  "  Of  course,"  she 
said  after  a  rather  uncomfortable  pause,  "  it  is  only 
fair  to  remember  that  we  have  forced  him  to  come." 

"  Forced  him  ?  "  Louisa  looked  indignant. 

Nathalie  felt  the  stinging  of  the  little  white  lie 
and  caught  herself.  "  Indirectly  we  have,"  she  said 
stoutly.  "  Burroughs  fairly  hounded  him  to  come 
down  here  for  weeks,  and  I  haven't  the  least  doubt 
that  it  was  lack  of  the  right  clothes  to  come  in,  an 
absurd  feeling  of  inequality,  that  has  kept  him  away 
so  long.  It's  a  horrid  thing  to  feel  outclassed." 

"  What  nonsense,"  said  Louisa  firmly.  "  If  a  man 
wants  something  from  the  world  he  must  conform  to 
it.  I  haven't  much  patience  with  wilful  eccentricity 
of  dress  and  manners." 

"Wilful?"  sighed  Nathalie.     " 'Wisa,"  she  said 


CLOTHES  101 

sadly,  "  you  are  talking  just  as  your  sister,  Mrs. 
William  Gleason,  would  talk !  "  Her  heart  had  gone 
heavy.  What  had  she  done  in  bringing  these  two 
people  together?  She  could  not  see  the  end  of  her 
well  meant  little  lie.  "  After  all,  we  are  but  sup- 
posing," she  temporised. 

*'  I  might  follow  in  worse  footsteps  than  my  sis- 
ter's," said  Louisa.  "  We  are  only  supposing, 
Nathalie,  but  supposing  with  that  sort  of  roof-line 
under  one's  eyes,"  and  she  glanced  out  the  window 
where  tumble-down  roofs  and  sagging  curtains  told 
of  the  near-by  abode  of  working-people,  "  is  —  edu- 
cational !  I  think  that  if  I  must  be  educated  I  shall 
be  content  to  take  it  out  largely  in  supposing." 

"  Don't  you  see,  Louisa,  that  a  man  of  talent  who 
has  his  future  to  make,  has  a  perfect  right  to  make 
the  most  of  his  time  and,  for  the  time,  to  ignore  such 
questions?  It  isn't  fair,  it  isn't  even  possible,  to 
understand  him  by  the  standard  of  —  your  world." 
It  was  the  first  time  since  they  had  lived  together  that 
Louisa's  world  had  been  acknowledged  as  a  thing 
apart.  They  both  felt  it  and  looked  away  from  one 
another's  eyes. 

"  Possibly  you  are  right,"  said  Louisa,  then 
sharply,  though  she  tried  to  hold  herself,  "but  he 
should  let  other  sorts  of  people  be  then.  Certainly 
he  does  not  require  evening  clothes  in  the  student's 
restaurants  1 " 


102  FAME-SEEKERS 

"  And  that,"  said  Nathalie  quietly,  "  is  no  doubt 
what  Keating  thinks,  would  even  have  told  you  for 
the  asking." 

A  slow  flush  spread  over  Louisa's  face  as  she  re- 
membered that  he  had  said  as  much  to  her  that  night 
in  the  Cour  la  Reine. 

Nathalie  took  the  flush  for  anger  and  she  looked 
away  and  spoke  conciliatingly.  "  Talented  friends 
are  a  responsibility,"  she  remarked.  She  was  sorry 
for  Louisa,  for  she  knew  the  hurt  of  living  in  an  un- 
familiar atmosphere,  but  with  Louisa's  point  of  view 
she  felt  not  a  jot  of  sympathy.  Nathalie  was  not 
as  much  a  young  woman  of  views  as  she  was  one  of 
heart.  Her  life  had  been  too  full  of  hard  work  to 
have  left  much  room  for  views,  and  now,  as  she 
glanced  at  the  pretty  table  in  the  alcove,  the  twi- 
light catching  on  the  white  cloth,  the  glass  and 
silver,  and  considered  all  the  beautiful  and  com- 
fortable things  that  Louisa's  purse  had  brought  into 
the  studio,  it  seemed,  all  of  it,  to  take  on  a  sinister 
glint.  Her  glimpse  into  the  heights  of  Louisa's 
pride  had  amazed  her,  but  had  sent  her,  without  hesi- 
tation, to  Keating's  side.  "  I'd  rather  Keating  came 
in  his  painting-coat  and  a  flannel  shirt  than  not  at 
all,"  she  declared. 

Louisa  took  her  in  with  a  little  laugh  that  brought 
a  flush  to  Nathalie's  face.  "  Of  course,  my  dear 
girl,  I'd  not  have  him  stop  away ;  but  I  do  insist  that 
if  he  wishes  to  be  a  portrait  painter  and  wishes  to 


CLOTHES  103 

know  the  people  whom  he  paints,  if  he  has  no  evening 
clothes  the  kindest  thing  we  can  do  is  to  immediately 
make  him  feel  the  need  of  them." 

To  Nathalie's  own  embarrassment  she  laughed 
aloud.  The  idea  of  Keating's  going  without  paint- 
ing materials  that  he  might  buy  clothes  in  which  to 
deck  himself  struck  out  the  voice  of  her  sense  of 
humour.  "  You  know,  evening  clothes  are  pretty 
expensive,"  she  smiled,  controlling  herself  the  best 
she  could.  "  Of  course,  Louisa,  you  have  never 
known  a  dozen  poor  people  in  all  your  life,  and  not 
one  of  them  intimately.  I  am  poor  compared  with 
you,  but  I  always  have  enough  for  the  necessities  so 
you  learn  nothing  of  the  reality  of  being  poor  from 
me.  You  could  not  have  known  them  for  the  sim- 
ple reason  that  they  could  not  have  afforded  to  know 
you.  They  could  no  more  afford  to  know  you  than 
they  could  afford  to  go  to  your  dressmaker.  You 
see,"  she  laughed,  "  your  riches  cut  you  out  of  all 
that.  Poor  you!  But  nonsense  aside,"  though  she 
knew  it  was  far  from  nonsense  to  them  both,  "  a 
free  man  may,  after  all,  think  for  himself,  and  a 
silly  question  of  clothes  can  scarcely  enter  in  if  there 
is  the  brain  and  the  talent  to  make  him  worth  his 
fight." 

"  You  are  hopelessly  an  artist  yourself,"  Louisa 
laughed,  resorting  for  poise  to  a  manner  of  great  in- 
dulgence. "  You  need  looking  after  nearly  as  badly 
as  Mr.  Keating  does.  Really,"  she  swept  Natha- 


104  FAME-SEEKERS 

lie  with  a  keen  glance,  "  you  should  furnish  the  rest 
of  us  with  the  spectacle  of  the  two  of  you  taking  care 
of  one  another !  " 

"  I  wouldn't  have  Keating  sacrificed,"  Nathalie 
said  in  a  voice  she  did  her  best  to  hold  at  the  level 
of  good-natured  banter. 

"  Shall  you  dress  to  dazzle,  too?  "  asked  Louisa. 

"  I  think  I  shall  stay  just  as  I  am,"  Nathalie 
said  with  a  sudden  impulse  to  be  arbitrary. 

She  gave  Louisa  a  long  level  look  into  her  offended 
eyes.  The  moment  had  not  been  possible  between 
them  a  year  ago.  What  was  this  ungovernable  thing 
that  was  creeping  in  between  them  ? 

Louisa  was  amused.  "  As  you  like.  You  will 
only  make  me  gleam  the  more ! " 

"  Oh,"  and  Nathalie  swerved  wearily,  "  I'll 
dress ! " 

"  I  have  never  heard  that  it  is  perfect  tact  to 
break  one's  habits  by  dressing  down  to  an  eccentric 
guest,"  remarked  Louisa.  "  I  should  want  no  one 
to  do  it  for  me." 

"  A  precious  hard  time  they'd  have  doing  it," 
Nathalie  nearly  snapped.  "  It  won't  matter  what  I 
wear.  I  have  nothing  very  splendid." 

Louisa  moved  across  the  floor  to  the  stairway  and, 
picking  up  her  grey  skirts,  she  ran  up  the  steps,  then, 
in  a  moment,  bent  over  the  balcony  rail  with  a  win- 
some smile.  "  Look  your  best,  Nat.  There's  a 
dear!" 


CLOTHES  105 

Nathalie  looked  up  at  Louisa,  her  face  working. 
"  Darn  it,"  she  sighed  comically,  "  I  always  look 
about  alike,  don't  I?" 

"  You  do,  blessed  girl  that  you  are,"  Louisa 
agreed  warmly. 

Nathalie  made  an  indefinable  sound  and  gesture, 
then  she  went  into  her  room.  With  scarcely  a  glance 
into  her  mirror  she  got  out  of  one  brown  dress  into 
another.  "  No  matter  what,  just  so  I  change  it !  " 
and  viciously  she  shook  the  discarded  dress  as  she 
hung  it  —  with  the  care  that  comes  to  a  woman  who 
has  had  to  economise  —  upon  two  hooks  along  the 
wall.  The  curtain  that  kept  the  dust  off  her  clothes 
was  drawn  back  and  showed  a  row  of  dresses,  brown, 
or  grey,  or  green.  She  considered  them  with  a 
friendly  little  smile  as  she  fastened  the  one  she  was 
wearing.  "  All  that  feeling  about  clothes !  Only," 
she  drew  the  curtain,  "  it  wasn't  all  about  clothes ! " 


CHAPTER    XIII 

THE   DINNER 

THE  bell  rang  and  Nathalie  hurried  into  the  studio, 
tugging  at  the  last  hook  of  her  dress.  She  waited, 
standing  near  the  fire,  trying  to  quiet  her  nerves, 
trying  not  to  care  what  sort  of  figure  was  about  to 
present  itself  at  the  door. 

The  door  opened  and  Burroughs  came  in.  He 
was  in  a  dinner  jacket,  and  Nathalie  read  the  jacket 
to  be  a  compromise  between  Louisa's  demands  and 
Keating's  deficiencies.  She  sent  a  sigh  backward 
to  the  winter  before  when  he  had  often  dined  with 
her  and  had  come  just  as  he  had  happened  to  be. 
They  had  been  gay  dinners,  and  good  ones,  the  eth- 
ics all  in  the  talk. 

"  Keating  not  here  yet! "  Burroughs  took  Natha- 
lie's hand  and  spoke  low. 

"  No.  Louisa  is  dressing."  She  echoed  the  pitch 
of  his  voice,  looking  up  at  him  inquisitively.  "  Is 
something  —  wrong?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Burroughs.  "  He  was 
around  at  my  place  this  afternoon  and  I've  never 
seen  him  in  such  a  state  of  mind.  He  said  he  was 
coming  here  to-night  because  he  had  promised,  but 

106 


THE  DINNER  107 

it  was  the  last  time  that  he'd  be  dragged  into  any 
such  thing.  He  threatened  to  give  up  his  studio 
and  go  into  the  country.  The  Salon  and  the  Fu- 
ture might  go  hang  together.  He  didn't  want  a 
career.  He  said  there  was  nothing  in  it  worth  the 
disgust  of  the  getting  of  it."  Burroughs  consid- 
ered Nathalie  intently.  "  I  say,  Nat,  have  Keating 
and  Louisa  quarrelled?  " 

"Quarrelled?"  Nathalie  echoed.  "But,  Bur- 
roughs, they've  never  even  met!  " 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that?  " 

"But  — where?     When?" 

Burroughs  made  a  gesture  with  his  arm  that  drew 
an  all-holding  circle.  "  They  are  both  free,  and  this 
is  Paris,  isn't  it?  One  never  knows." 

"  I  don't  believe  Louisa  —  oh,  dear  me,  /  don't 
know!  She  wants  him  to  do  her  portrait  now,  and 
she's  giving  it  to  me  for  my  birthday.  She's  going 
to  put  on  the  dress  she  wants  him  to  paint  her  in 
to-night,  and  she  means  to  tell  him  about  it.  Oh, 
Burroughs,"  she  collapsed  into  a  chair,  "  I  have  made 
mischief!  I  hadn't  sense  enough  to  realise  that 
Keating  must  go  his  own  way,  must  be  let  alone. 
I  hope  he  doesn't  come  at  all ! " 

Burroughs  smiled  at  her  dejection,  but  he  was  as 
concerned  as  she.  "  So  you  are  in  the  story,  too?  " 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  I  am,"  she  went 
on  cheerlessly.  "  I  deliberately  went  and  hunted  him 
out.  I  adroitly  let  him  think  that  Louisa  was  ill, 


108  FAME-SEEKERS 

was  working  herself  to  death.  And  to-day  Louisa 
is  blooming  like  a  rose !  I  never  saw  her  look  better, 
or  lovelier,  than  she  does  to-day!  Keating  will 
think—" 

The  bell  jangled  again. 

"  I  believe,"  said  Burroughs  hurriedly,  "  that 
Keating  is  hard  pressed  for  money." 

"  But  surely  he's  used  to  being  that.' 

"  The  quicker  Miss  Garth  knows  Keating  the  bet- 
ter," said  Burroughs,  as  steps  came  down  the  hall. 
"  Don't  do  anything  to  interfere  with  that !  " 

Nathalie  gave  him  a  fervent  glance.  "  I  shall 
never  again  interfere  with  anything  that  is !  "  she  de- 
clared. 

The  door  opened  and  revealed  Keating  hesitating 
on  the  threshold. 

Keating's  coat  was  a  cut-away.  It  was  a  rusty, 
very  long-tailed  cut-away  and  it  had  been  worn  and 
brushed  till  it  shone  at  every  joint  and  seam.  It 
was  narrow  in  the  shoulders  and  short  in  the  sleeves. 
When  he  gave  Nathalie  his  hand  she  had  a  discon- 
certing glimpse  of  something  dark  to  which  the  white 
cuffs  had  been  attached  and  the  coat  was  buttoned 
about  him  with  that  distressing  bravery  which  in- 
sists tragically  upon  ignoring  deficiency  of  founda- 
tion. 

The  door  of  the  balcony-room  opened  and  closed 
and  there  came  the  click  of  Louisa's  heels  upon  the 
polished  steps  of  the  little  spiral  stairway. 


THE  DINNER  109 

At  the  first  glimpse  of  her  slippers  and  the  hem 
of  her  dress  Nathalie  longed  to  run  away  that  she 
might  be  saved  the  sight  of  Keating's  bewilderment. 
But  she  was  forced  to  stand  and  watch  it  all,  fasci- 
nated. And  when  she  actually  saw  Louisa  —  stand- 
ing there  in  the  great,  softly-lighted  room,  perfect 
in  grace  and  self-possession  —  she  gave  a  deep 
breath  of  admiration,  forgot  Keating  and  herself. 
For  Louisa  was,  verily,  a  work  of  art,  that,  till  you 
caught  the  breathing,  detached  itself  from  things 
about. 

The  dress  was  a  sort  of  love  affair  between  heavy 
stuffs  and  delicate  handling.  It  was  daringly  nar- 
row about  the  ankles  and  as  daringly  free  about  the 
shoulders.  It  was  brilliant  and  of  colour  at  the  top 
and  dark  and  shadowy  at  the  hem.  And  there,  in 
the  shadow,  were  her  small  feet  in  beautiful  slippers, 
and  stockings  like  a  web. 

Nathalie,  looking  on,  realised  suddenly  that  one 
such  dress,  one  such  fantastic  and  beautifully  exe- 
cuted idea,  would  have  cost  more  money  than  Keat- 
ing would  have  had  to  live  upon  for  a  year  out  of 
his  life.  The  dress  was  splendid,  and  right  —  for 
Louisa.  And  so  was  Keating  splendid,  and  right. 
Hers  had  been  the  strange  blindness  in  forcing  them 
together. 

As  Louisa  gave  Keating  her  hand,  she  took  him 
in  and  her  eyes  opened  very  wide,  then  narrowed  and 
grew  dark.  As  for  Keating,  he  was  swept  off  his 


110  FAME-SEEKERS 

feet.  When  she  spoke  to  him,  giving  her  hand  to 
him  and  standing  near  him,  he  sent  Burroughs  a 
miserable  glance,  shook  her  hand  till  she  winced, 
then  rubbed  his  handkerchief  across  his  forehead 
and  retreated  precipitately  to  the  chair  by  the  fire 
and  sank  into  it,  always  staring  at  her,  and  leaving 
the  rest  of  them  standing. 

Nathalie  caught  the  new,  hard  smile  that  slipped 
across  Louisa's  face  as  she  turned  away  to  Bur- 
roughs, and,  full  of  indignation  and  pity,  she  sat 
down  by  Keating  and  talked  to  him  till  dinner  was 
announced.  She  might  have  talked  into  the  air  for 
all  the  impression  she  made  upon  him.  He  sat  with 
his  chin  on  his  hand,  staring  over  her  head  to  where 
he  could  watch  Louisa  chatting  with  Burroughs  in 
the  curve  of  the  grand  piano.  And  as  they  took 
their  places  at  the  table,  she  saw  the  servant  observe 
Keating  with  all  the  contempt  of  her  stupid  class 
upon  her  thoughtless  face. 

"  Where  does  the  clever-poor  man  belong?  "  she 
asked  herself,  and  she  realised  as  never  before  that 
he  must  make  his  own  place  in  the  world. 

Louisa,  perhaps  to  hide  her  nervousness,  went 
madly  to  the  extreme  of  her  advantages.  She 
seemed  bent  on  making  more  of  what  was  already  too 
much.  She  moved  her  beautiful  hands  and  arms 
about  adjusting  the  candle-shades,  while  the  lights 
played  impishly  over  her  spangles,  her  shoulders, 
her  bright  hair  and  eyes.  She  laughed  at  them 


THE  DINNER  111 

across  the  light  and  Keating  smiled  upon  her  like 
a  man  who  had  been  drugged. 

"  I  wish  that  I  knew  how  to  paint,"  said  Nathalie, 
feeling  that  the  dress  must  be  explained  into  its 
place,  that  something  must  be  said  to  clarify  the  air. 
She  sent  a  supplicating  glance  across  the  candle- 
light to  Louisa.  "  Louisa  and  that  dress  should  be 
painted;  they  might  almost  be  played.  Shall  we 
try  after  dinner,  Burroughs  ?  "  and  she  got  her  de- 
served groan  from  Burroughs  for  her  banality. 

Louisa  smiled,  but  her  brows  were  lifted  coolly, 
and  she  said  nothing. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Keating,  looking  remotely 
at  Nathalie,  as  if  he  were  being  awakened,  "  I  don't 
know  much  about  clothes,"  he  spoke  simply,  "  but 
I  think  it  would  be  too  much  of  a  good  thing  for  a 
canvas.  I  may  be  wrong  about  it,  but  I  shouldn't 
know  how  to  paint  it." 

Nathalie  felt  the  earth  slipping  from  beneath  her 
feet  and  Louisa  laughed  aloud :  "  I  had  thought  of 
having  a  portrait  painted  in  this  dress!"  she  said, 
looking  at  him. 

"  All  that  gold  stuff?  "  Keating  wondered,  tak- 
ing her  in  with  his  head  back  and  with  a  laughing 
glance  at  Burroughs.  "  It  would  be  great  on  a 
drop-curtain,  wouldn't  it,  Burroughs?"  He  turned 
suddenly  to  Nathalie.  "  Now,  that  brown  stuff 
would  be  beautiful  to  paint.  You  promised  to  pose 
for  me,  Miss  Corson.  There  is  just  time  for  a  try 


112  FAME-SEEKERS 

at  it  for  the  Salon.  I've  nothing  that  I  really  care 
about  sending.  Will  you  pose  for  me  now  ?  —  to- 
morrow? "  He  was  eager,  and  unaware  of  any 
abruptness. 

"  But  — "  Nathalie  began  her  protest,  gazing 
helplessly  from  Louisa  to  Burroughs,  and  blushing. 
Burroughs  wore  a  look  of  strained  self-control,  and 
Nathalie  felt  that  if  he  laughed  she'd  as  certainly  cry. 

The  servant  served  the  soup,  then  moved  briskly 
about  the  table  with  a  small  Dresden  basket  of 
toasted  bread. 

Keating  seemed  suddenly  to  awaken,  fairly 
plunged  in  a  spasm  of  anxiety  to  seem  at  his  ease, 
and  he  took  the  basket  out  of  the  servant's  hands 
and  held  it  towards  Louisa.  Again  Louisa's  eyes 
opened  wide  but  with  a  well-controlled  smile  she  ac- 
cepted a  piece  of  bread  then,  with  a  firmness  Natha- 
lie had  never  seen  in  her  before,  she  took  the  basket 
out  of  Keating's  hands  and  gave  it  back  into  the 
hands  of  the  sharp-eyed  girl.  And  then  it  was  that 
the  incredible  thing  happened:  no  one  quite  knew 
how  it  happened,  least  of  all  poor  Keating  himself. 
Perhaps  a  button  on  his  coat  sleeve  caught  in 
Louisa's  lace.  The  plate  of  hot  soup  before  Louisa, 
slipped  and  tipped,  and  in  another  moment  Louisa 
was  standing  by  her  chair,  looking  in  bewilderment 
upon  the  pink  bisque  flowing  down  the  front  of  her 
dress.  Nathalie,  Burroughs  and  the  servant  were 
on  their  knees  in  a  moment,  doing  what  they  could 


THE  DINNER  113 

to  allay  disaster  with  serviettes,  but  Keating  could 
only  stand  back,  paralysed,  helpless,  crimson  and 
humble,  staring  in  fright  at  the  thing  he  had  done. 

"  Your  beautiful  dress !  "  he  gasped.  "  It  must 
have  cost  a  fortune.  How  can  I  ever  make  it  up 
to  you?  " 

"  Don't  be  absurd !  "  said  Louisa.  She  was  pale, 
but  with  all  the  courage  she  had  left  she  gave  him  a 
smile.  "  It  is  nothing  but  a  dress  after  all !  " 

Suddenly  Keating  came  towards  her  with  a  look 
of  horror  upon  his  face.  "  Did  it  burn  you?  "  he 
asked  in  a  voice  hardly  more  than  a  whisper. 

"  No,  no,  no,"  Louisa  laughed  hysterically. 
"  Let  the  dress  be !  "  she  said  to  the  others.  "  The 
cleaners  will  make  it  like  new.  I'll  run  up  and  slip 
into  something  else.  Go  on  with  the  dinner,"  she 
commanded,  in  a  tone  the  servant  girls  even  are  wont 
to  obey.  "  I'll  be  down  in  two  minutes."  And  she 
went  up  to  her  room,  the  satin  slippers  and  the  hem 
of  the  rich  dress  retreating,  less  gaily,  than  they  had 
come  down. 

Then  Nathalie,  her  poise  re-found  in  the  amazing 
climax,  took  things  firmly  in  hand.  She  told  Keat- 
ing of  Louisa's  idea  of  having  a  portrait  painted 
and  that  it  was  to  be  a  gift  to  herself.  She  sug- 
gested the  advantages  to  him  in  exhibiting  a  por- 
trait of  that  sort,  and  of  a  young  woman  with  as 
many  friends  as  Louisa  had. 

Keating  listened,  the  flush  slipping  away  from  his 


FAME-SEEKERS 

face,  and  the  gaunt  look  that  Nathalie  had  noticed 
in  his  studio  came  back.  "  I'd  rather  paint  you," 
he  said  stubbornly. 

"  That's  like  you,  old  mule  that  you  are,"  laughed 
Burroughs,  leaguing  with  Nathalie. 

"  But,  in  something  simpler  ?  "  ventured  Nathalie, 
desperately.  "  If  7  could  paint  I'd  be  on  pins  and 
needles  to  paint  Louisa." 

"  Do  you  know,"  and  Keating  took  her  in  in 
comical  solemnity,  "  I  think  it's  a  pretty  good  thing 
that  you  can't  paint !  "  Keating  laughed  suddenly 
in  his  boyish  way.  "  Plotter !  "  he  called  her,  then 
gave  his  attention  —  with  a  thoroughness  that  made 
Nathalie  wonder  again  if  his  funds  had  gone  too 
low  —  to  his  dinner.  It  is  a  racking  thing  to  be 
hostess  to  a  guest  who,  though  a  genius,  is  hungry. 

"  Anyhow,"  he  said  simply,  "  she  hasn't  asked  me. 
It's  nine  to  ten  that  she  won't  now."  And  he  chuc- 
kled, with  a  piece  of  meat  and  an  equally  large  piece 
of  potato  upon  his  lifted  fork. 

When  Louisa  paused,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later, 
in  the  shadow  of  the  balcony  rail  on  her  way  back 
to  the  dinner-table  to  see  if  she  might  catch  the 
tone  of  the  talk  below,  she  heard  Keating  talking,  of 
paint  and  painters  she  had  no  doubt,  in  a  voice  more 
happy  than  before  that  evening.  She  frowned  a 
little,  she  could  not  have  said  just  why,  to  hear  the 
three  of  them  laughing  together.  Perhaps  the  un- 
happy situation  had  passed;  perhaps  the  falling  of 


THE  DINNER  115 

the  plate  of  bisque  had  been  merely  the  climax  of 
some  crazy  dream.  Certainly  there  could  be  noth- 
ing more  awkward  to  come!  She  went  down  quietly 
and  took  her  place  again,  Burroughs  quick  to  be  at 
her  chair,  approval  in  his  eyes. 

"  That's  more  like  it,"  said  Keating,  taking  her 
in,  impersonally,  as  only  painters  dare  to  do,  though 
they  do  it  without  any  daring,  nor  even  knowing 
that  they  do  it. 

"  Yes  ?  "  Louisa  smiled.  She  had  slipped  into  the 
condemned  dress  of  the  afternoon. 

"  By  Jove !  I  could  paint  that ! "  he  said  en- 
thusiastically, then  flushed  as  he  remembered  the  ru- 
moured order. 

"  Will  you  do  a  portrait  of  me  in  this  for  Natha- 
lie's birthday  ?  "  she  asked  him  frankly. 

"No,"  said  Keating  slowly.  "But  I'll  do  one 
for  the  fun  of  doing  it." 

"  But  that,"  Louisa  flushed,  "  isn't  a  fair  reason." 

"  It's  a  funny  thing,"  murmured  Keating, 
"  how  few  women  have  any  idea  about  fair  rea- 
sons. Take  my  word  for  it,  wanting  to  is  the  only 
reason  for  painting  anything!  If  I  paint  a  por- 
trait of  you  it  will  be  for  my  fun.  You — "  he 
laughed,  a  boyishness  making  his  face  look  all  the 
more  gaunt,  "  you  don't  come  in  at  all  on  that. 
After  it's  done  maybe  I'll  give  it  to  you.  Maybe !  " 

The  dinner  moved  along  to  the  end  without  more 
actual  disaster.  There  were  details  —  knives  and 


116  FAME-SEEKERS 

forks  left  stacked  on  plates  like  arms  at  rest  and  last 
drops  of  Angeline's  excellent  sauces  absorbed  by 
means  of  broom-like  bits  of  bread  —  but  there  was 
nothing  that  could  not  be  ignored.  And  Keating; 
having  done  a  thing  much  worse  than  he  could  pos- 
sibly have  foreseen,  having  come  through  the  incred- 
ible incident  with  his  victim  still  in  a  good  homour, 
having  been  hungry  and  cold  and  being  now  amply 
fed  and  warm,  big  child  that  he  was,  he  contrived  to 
believe  that  the  thing  had  not  been  so  bad  after 
all,  and  gradually  he  became  as  serene  as,  during 
the  first  part  of  the  evening,  he  had  been  ill  at  ease. 
And  he  held  sway  in  word  and  spirit,  going  on  about 
paint  and  painters,  the  only  subjects,  he  profoundly 
believed,  worth  talking  over  after  a  good  warm 
dinner. 

Nathalie  served  the  coffee  from  a  low  table  near 
the  fire. 

"  Is  there  to  be  music,  Nathalie?  "  and  Burroughs 
fondled  his  pipe  questioningly. 

"  There  is,"  she  said  firmly. 

Louisa  was  standing  while  Keating  considered  her 
dress  and  talked  of  how  he  would  paint  her.  Then 
they  came  to  the  fire  for  their  coffee.  Louisa 
slipped  back  into  her  arm-chair  and  listened  vaguely 
while  Keating  talked.  He  told  stories,  and  good 
stories,  which  savoured  not  so  much  of  the  farm  as 
of  what  the  man  who  had  run  away  from  the  farm 
had  learned  by  looking  back  upon  it. 


THE  DINNER  117 

"  But,  why  don't  you  play?  "  he  interrupted  him- 
self suddenly,  looking  at  Nathalie. 

"  I'd  like  to,"  Nathalie  smiled.  Burroughs  went 
to  the  piano  and  Keating  followed  him,  watching  his 
hands  move  over  the  keys  while  Nathalie  got  out 
her  violin. 

"  It's  marvellous  to  me,"  said  Keating,  "  how  a 
man  can  do  all  sorts  of  things  as  well  as  you  do 
without  any  grind." 

"  She  carries  me  over  the  hard  places,"  and  Bur- 
roughs sent  Nathalie  a  smile.  "  She'll  carry  a  whole 
orchestra  of  better  men  than  me  one  of  these  days." 

"  A  fiddle's  a  pretty  thing,"  said  Keating,  stand- 
ing back  and  looking  on.  He  had  never  heard 
Nathalie  play  and  he  watched  her  handling  her 
violin  with  delight.  He  crossed  the  room  and  made 
himself  extremely  comfortable  upon  Nathalie's 
couch.  He  wanted  to  look  and  listen  completely. 
For  the  moment  Louisa  Garth  was  not  ignored,  but 
forgotten  as  blissfully  as  her  presence  was  included 
in  the  general  charm  and  comfort. 

To  Nathalie  the  moment  was  an  opportunity. 
Though  Burroughs,  who  was  very  musical,  appreci- 
ated her  art  from  a  side  which  was  closed  to  Keat- 
ing, there  was,  after  all,  something  of  the  rough- 
hewn  natural  man  about  Keating  which  it  stirred 
her  to  think  of  moving.  She  took  her  place  in  the 
centre  of  the  great  room,  space  and  soft  light  all 
about  her  and  a  rich  carpet  under  her  feet,  and  she 


118  FAME-SEEKERS 

played  till  they  watched  her  in  amazement,  played 
with  her  dark  face  bent  above  her  violin  in  a  com- 
mon harmony  and  eloquence,  played  till  her  hands 
seemed  to  move  with  a  mind  of  their  own,  with  a 
skill  almost  clairvoyant. 

Time  slipped  by.  One  thing  was  played  after  an- 
other, no  question  voiced  of  stopping  or  going  on. 
Keating  had  become  nearly  lost  to  view  in  cushions, 
smoke  and  comfort.  There  came  a  pause  while 
Nathalie  hunted  for  some  misplaced  music,  and  with 
a  gesture  of  determination  Louisa  rose,  crossed  the 
room  and  stood  looking  down  upon  Keating. 

"  I  want  to  talk  a  little  about  the  portrait,"  she 
said. 

"  Sit  down ! "  and  Keating  cordially  invited  her 
to  a  cushion  at  the  other  end  of  the  couch.  "  By 
George,  but  that  mite  of  a  girl  can  play  her  fiddle !  " 
and  he  looked  over  at  Louisa  with  glowing  en- 
thusiasm. 

"  Yes,  she  does  indeed,"  Louisa  agreed  absently. 
She  sat  beside  him  and  stared  before  her  for  a  mo- 
ment before  speaking.  "  It  was  at  Nathalie's  sug- 
gestion that  I  decided  to  ask  you  to  do  my  portrait. 
I  know,  of  course,  that  I  —  am  annoying  to  you.  I'd 
not  have  thought  of  asking  you  myself.  She 
thinks  it  may  be  of  advantage  to  you,  and  I  am 
more  than  glad  if  she  is  right.  But,  I  want  to  ask 
a  favour  of  you?  " 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  "  murmured  Keating, 


THE  DINNER  119 

taking  her  in  attentively,  a  threat  of  his  annoying 
laugh  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  want  you  to  promise  me  that  you  will  take  me 
like  any  other  stranger  who  might  come  to  you  and 
order  a  portrait  in  a  professional  way." 

Keating  smiled  and  there  was  something  of  the 
masterfulness  upon  him  that  had  dominated  their 
other  talk  together  in  the  Cour  la  Reine.  "  It's 
mighty  good  sense,  all  that,  but  I  don't  believe  that 
it  will  work !  " 

"  It  must  work,"  she  said  firmly. 

"  Must?  Must  is  a  little  bit  of  a  word  with  every- 
body livin'  in  it!  She's  beginning,"  he  cautioned 
her.  "  Why  don't  you  sit  here  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  impatiently  and  went  back  to 
her  chair  by  the  fire.  The  music  began  and  it 
seemed  to  her  tired  nerves  to  fill  the  great  room  to 
suffocation.  She  put  her  head  back  and  half-closed 
her  eyes.  She  felt  that  she  had  had  about  as  much 
of  music  as  she  could  well  endure.  She  could  not 
gather  her  senses  together,  she  could  not  "  hear  her- 
self think."  She  started  suddenly  and  looked  around 
to  find  Burroughs'  eyes  upon  her  from  across  the 
piano.  He  was  watching  her  while  he  played.  She 
flushed  a  little  but  returned  his  smile,  then  set  her- 
self to  endure  the  music  for  a  while  longer.  Surely 
it  was  late;  it  could  scarcely  last  much  longer. 

But  Keating  was  ecstatic  and  unaware  of  the 
hour.  He  was  watching  her  there  by  the  fire,  sit- 


120  FAME-SEEKERS 

ting  in  the  great  arm-chair  with  her  head  upon  her 
hand  and  her  face  lost  and  pearl-like  in  the  shadow 
of  her  heavy  hair.  He  was  wishing  that  women 
would  be  content  with  portraits  painted  like  that, 
would  realise  the  importance  of  shadows. 

And  Nathalie!  She  was  playing  again,  playing 
for  him.  He  knew  that  well  enough,  and  he  watched 
her  as  keenly  as  he  listened  to  her.  What  a  curious 
pair  of  women  to  be  living  together!  Keating 
would  have  stayed  on  till  coffee  and  rolls  if  Bur- 
roughs had  not  taken  him  away. 

"  Hasn't  it  been  awful !  "  said  Nathalie  to  Bur- 
roughs as  they  put  the  music  away. 

"  Partly,  I  admit  it ;  a  veritable  surgical  opera- 
tion, but  — "  he  laughed,  getting  out  his  pipe,  "  it 
has  probably  saved  two  lives.  As  for  you,  I've 
never  heard  you  play  before !  " 


CHAPTER    XIV 

IN    THE    BEGINNING 

LOUISA  stood  punching  the  long  gold  pins  in  and 
out  of  her  hat,  and  glancing  from  time  to  time  at 
the  face  of  the  remorseless  clock  which  was  ticking 
around  towards  two. 

"  Nathalie,"  she  turned  about  desperately,  "  won't 
you  go  with  me,  just  this  first  time?  " 

"  But,  my  dear  girl,  I  cannot.  I  have  a  lesson  at 
half-past  two  and  my  harmony  at  five.  Why  all 
this  panic?  You  know  Keating  as  a  professional 
man.  You  are  not  a  child,  and  Keating  is  not  an 
ogre.  Paris  is  neither  Philadelphia  nor  a  New  Eng- 
land village."  She  laughed  at  Louisa.  "  You  are 
going  for  a  purpose  and,  I  take  it,  not  merely  to 
pass  the  time.  It  is  really  amusing  to  see  you  in 
such  a  flutter !  " 

'*"  It  isn't  '  amusing '  to  be  in  *  such  a  flutter,'  * 
sighed  Louisa.  She  stood  with  bent  head,  thinking, 
listening.  Lately  Nathalie  had  changed,  was  easily 
irritated,  seemed  given  over  to  some  covert  antag- 
onism, was  not  only  critical  but  cynical,  and  very 
hard  upon  Louisa  for  not  understanding  things  she 
had  had  no  way  of  learning.  Nathalie  was  working 

121 


122  FAME-SEEKERS 

every  hour  that  she  could  find,  and  Burroughs  was 
playing  with  her  in  the  evenings.  No  doubt  her 
nerves  were  stretched  and  every  hope  of  her  at  ten- 
sion before  her  coming  audition.  But  could  tired 
nerves  alone  have  brought  so  much  of  change  ?  Wil- 
liam Gleason  had  warned  her  —  it  seemed  a  thou- 
sand years  ago  —  that  two  women  could  not  keep 
the  peace  in  narrow  quarters,  that  the  price  of  her 
year  would  be,  inevitably,  a  broken  friendship.  She 
had  laughed  him  down.  She  flushed  as  she  remem- 
bered her  own  strutting  certainty.  This  state  of 
affairs,  this  restlessness  and  irritation,  had  crept  in 
so  stealthily  that  she  did  not  know  when  it  had  be- 
gun. She  had  been  at  fault  too,  had  grown  more 
and  more  secretive,  but  —  after  all,  each  woman  has 
her  secrets  and  the  right  to  keep  them.  She  had 
tried  more  than  once  to  tell  Nathalie  of  her  strange 
talk  with  Keating  that  evening  by  the  river-wall,  but 
some  coldness  of  manner,  or  a  laugh  at  the  wrong 
moment,  or  a  bit  of  Nathalie's  gay  cynicism  had  put 
her  off.  Nathalie  would  have  treated  the  strange  in- 
cident with  the  glare  of  her  common-sense. 

"  You  are  sure,  Nathalie,  that  it  isn't  —  odd,  go- 
ing alone  to  pose?  " 

"  Well,  yes,"  said  Nathalie  impatiently,  "  it  is 
odd,  if  you  insist.  But,"  she  lifted  her  shoulders, 
"  it  is  done  that  way  over  here.  It's  done  that  way 
in  New  York,  in  Philadelphia,  everywhere,  among 
professional  people,  isn't  it  ?  " 


IN  THE  BEGINNING  123 

"  No  doubt !  "  Louisa  looked  hopeless.  "  But 
I'm  not  a  professional  person,  and  I  never  shall  be. 
I  almost  think,"  she  smiled  faintly,  "  that  I  do  not 
want  to  be." 

"  You  are  perfectly  right.  You  aren't  —  strong 
enough,  I  think,  to  *  carry  '  over  the  footlights !  But 
that's  a  big  question,  and,"  she  laughed,  "  this  is  a 
little  incident.  For  the  time  you  have  chosen  to  live 
in  a  world-apart,  you  know.  Of  course,  if  Keating 
were  a  banker,  and  if  your  object  in  visiting  him  were 
merely  to  get  stock-market  news,  it  wouldn't  do  at 
all."  She  fastened  the  catch  of  her  violin-case 
with  a  nearly  profane  little  click,  then  slipped  her 
arms  into  her  coat  sleeves.  "  But  as  Keating  is  no 
banker  he  won't  think  it  odd  in  the  least.  My  dear 
child,  he'll  even  accept  your  coming  as  he'd  accept 
the  milk-man  or  the  coal-man.  Keating  is  only  a 
painter,  and  a  perfectly  simple  person." 

"  I  might  take  Angeline  and  say  that  she  has 
come  to  help  me  with  my  dress  ?  "  Louisa  suggested. 

Nathalie's  mellow  voice  and  her  patience  broke  to- 
gether. "  Take  her,  by  all  means,  but  Keating  will 
make  a  mess  of  his  work,  and  will  bless  you  for  it !  " 

"  But  why  ?  "  ventured  Louisa,  aghast  at  Natha- 
lie's hardness. 

"  Why  ?  "  echoed  Nathalie.  "  Because  Keating  is 
an  earnest  workman,  my  dear  girl,  and  his  one  idea 
in  wanting  you  to  pose  for  him  is  to  get  a  good 
canvas  out  of  you.  You,  like  everybody  else,  are 


12*  FAME-SEEKERS 

taking  the  painter's  profession  as  a  pastime!  You 
think  he  wants  you  for  yourself.  He  does  not.  It's 
for  what  you  look  to  him.  He  isn't  used  to  compli- 
cated women,  like  you,  with  wonderful  clothes  and 
chaperones.  A  maid  would  annoy  him  just  as  your 
dress  disturbed  him  the  other  night,  and  the  whole 
thing  would  seem  just  theatricals  to  him.  He'd 
more  than  likely  laugh, —  and,"  she  paused  and 
smiled  to  take  Louisa  in,  "  you'd  not  like  having 
Keating  laugh  at  you.  As  for  going  alone  the 
thing  is  done  every  day,  all  over  the  Quarter.  The 
students  all  pose  for  one  another.  It  saves  money, 
and  makes  interesting  canvases.  So,  go  ahead  in 
peace!  And,  unless  you  stumble  and  blush  on  the 
stairway,  no  one  will  take  the  smallest  notice  of 
you." 

Louisa  pinned  on  her  hat,  looking  from  the  reflec- 
tion of  her  own  eyes  to  the  reflection  of  Nathalie. 
Nathalie  was  preoccupied  with  getting  her  music 
ready.  "  I  suppose,"  she  said  absently,  "  that  you 
can't  understand  how  I  feel  about  it,  Nat."  She 
was  trapped  by  utter  abstraction  into  stumbling. 

Nathalie  winced,  then  turned  about  and  looked  at 
Louisa.  **  Yes,  I  can  understand,"  she  said  quietly. 
"  We  both  came  out  of  the  same  sort  of  world,  you 
know,  in  the  beginning!  But  I  have  been  able  to 
outgrow  the  point  of  view.  I'm  off,"  she  said  and 
her  voice  was  too  light,  "  Good-bye ! "  and  with  a 
nod  she  went  out,  closing  the  door  softly. 


IN  THE  BEGINNING  125 

Louisa  heard  the  hall-door  close,  too,  then  the  iron 
gate  bang  to  down  in  the  court.     Nathalie  had  let 
herself  go  at  the  iron  gate !     Temper,  really  temper ! 
She  leaned  against  the  tall  mirror  and  looked  about 
the  beautiful  studio.     It  was  turning  out,  then,  like 
her  old  life,  her  other  friends ;  even  Nathalie !     They 
were  all  to  disappoint  her  sooner  or  later.     She  had 
come  very  little  in  contact  with  the  student's  life, 
though   Nathalie  knew  it   so   well.     Now   Nathalie 
had  no  time  for  its   half-work,  half-play  pastimes, 
and  had  made  of  her  studio  a  world-apart.     But  she 
was  able  to  accept  its  standards  because  she  knew 
them  through  and  through.     Knowing  it  so  well  she 
was  able  to  be  above  it,  to  do  as  she  pleased  in  self- 
confidence   and   poise,   and   she  expected  Louisa  to 
take  her  word  for  it,  to  fall  into  the  Quarter  manners 
without  having  been  through  its  schools.     It  was  not 
that  Louisa  wanted  to  be  like  the  rest,  that  she  en- 
vied them  any  more.     She'd  been  learning  her  own 
lessons  at  Avril's,  but  Natalie  never  took  that  into 
consideration.     But  the  book-binders  were,  or  seemed 
to  be,  so  much  older  than  the  Americans  in  "  the 
Quarter."     The   book-binders    came   from    the    four 
corners  of  the  earth,  and  they  met  in  a  gay,  business- 
like way  there,  talkative,  and  wise,  and  simple,  and 
it  didn't  matter  to  them  about  having  tea  together, 
or  evenings.     They   met   there   as   they'd  meet   by 
chance  in  a  cafe,  and  they  made  no  great  fuss  about 
it.     She  moved  near   the  stove,  slowly  putting  on 


126  FAME-SEEKERS 

her  jacket.  She'd  been  almost  happy  in  their 
"  stove-tropics "  during  the  long  evenings  while 
Nathalie  and  Burroughs  played.  But  their  world 
had  narrowed  in  too  close.  Keating's  coming  had 
crowded  out  peace,  would  crowd  her  out  in  the  end. 
She  wondered  sharply  when  and  where  she'd  go! 


CHAPTER    XV 

MORE    BEGINNINGS 

ONCE  started  on  her  way  to  Keating's  studio,  Louisa 
rushed  blindly,  like  a  baby  first  crossing  an  ocean  of 
floor.  She  arrived  at  his  gate  with  a  self-accusing 
thankfulness  that  she  had  encountered  no  one  whom 
she  knew.  She  sent  a  little  smile  —  in  spite  of  her 
lifted  head  an  apology  of  a  smile  —  to  the  old  con- 
cierge knitting  by  her  fire  in  the  lodge  at  the  gate. 
She  followed  Burroughs'  directions,  crossed  the  court, 
then  climbed  the  three  flights  of  stairs,  and  she  was 
ashamed  all  the  way  of  being  ashamed,  and  her  heart 
pounded  persistently,  out  of  all  time  with  the  silence, 
the  circumstances,  and  the  simple  surroundings. 
When  she  heard  Keating  walking  across  his  floor 
to  open  the  door  she  drew  herself  up  sharply  and  met 
his  grave  face  with  a  smile  which  seemed  casual 
enough.  Then,  somehow,  she  was  inside  the  place, 
and  the  door  was  shut  and  the  world  was  safely  out- 
side! 

She  was  dazed  at  first  by  the  sense  of  space.  The 
big  place  was,  undeniably,  bare  —  but  it  was  so  tran- 
quil, so  restful  and  so  beautiful  in  tone !  She  moved 
over  to  the  stove  and  stood  looking  about  her  with 

191 


128  FAME-SEEKERS 

her  hands  held  towards  the  warmth.  So  Keating  has 
his  oasis  too,  his  own  stove-tropics.  The  serious 
easy-going  peace  of  a  well-mannered  work-shop  that 
is  charming  in  its  sense  of  home  as  well,  the  charm 
of  the  real  studio,  came  home  to  her  for  the  first 
time.  "You  don't  mind  my  looking  about?"  She 
was  able  this  time  to  smile  naturally.  "  You  see,  I 
haven't  been  in  this  sort  of  real  studio  before." 

"  Have  you  never  been  to  Burroughs'  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  but  his  is  as  — *  furnished  ' — as  ours ! 
It  isn't  a  real  work-shop  like  this." 

"  I  could  use  some  more  furniture  here,"  said  Keat- 
ing laconically. 

"  I  believe  that  I  really  like  it  as  it  is,"  she  in- 
sisted. 

From  beneath  the  edge  of  a  high  shelf,  which  ran 
around  the  stove  corner,  all  the  way  to  the  base- 
board, Keating  had  tacked  up  drawings  in  colour  by 
Steinlin,  from  old  numbers  of  Gil  Bias,  and  the  mel- 
lowing of  the  fire  had  toned  them  till  they  looked 
like  fine  old  tiles.  On  the  shelf  were  the  tea  things 
—  for  the  sturdiest  painter  likes  to  cut  the  long 
afternoons  in  two  with  a  cup  of  tea  —  a  cracked  blue 
and  white  plate  or  two,  and  here  and  there  a  twin- 
kling, if  inconsequential,  bit  of  brass  or  copper. 

An  unpainted  table  with  a  piece  of  fine-coloured 
stuff  thrown  across  it  was  backed  with  books,  and 
upon  the  corner  away  from  the  fire  stood  a  small 
yellow  vase  of  Chinese  porcelain  with  a  few  flowers 


MORE  BEGINNINGS  129 

in  it.  The  vase  was  nicked  like  the  plates  on  the 
shelf,  but  it  was  lovely  in  form  and  in  colour,  and  the 
flowers  drew  Louisa's  eyes  again  and  again.  A  tin 
kettle  which  was  coated  in  a  very  anarchy  of  un- 
washed iridescence  steamed  cheerily  away  upon  the 
stove.  A  high  packing  box  was  drawn  into  the  cor- 
ner and  served  three  purposes:  a  storing  place  for 
old  canvases,  a  partition  which  made  a  warm  corner 
possible  in  the  coldest  weather,  and  a  back  for  a 
couch  which  stood  against  it.  A  grey  and  blue  cur- 
tain covered  the  box  and  the  couch,  and  against  the 
side  towards  the  room  rested  a  framed  canvas  by 
Burroughs.  It  was  a  charmingly  quiet  study  of  a 
young  girl  standing  between  the  drawn  curtains  of 
a  room,  looking  out.  A  glimpse  of  sky  and  roof  be- 
tween the  curtains  gave  an  extraordinary  sense  of 
height,  and  of  intimacy. 

"  Good,  isn't  it,"  commented  Keating,  looking  at 
the  canvas  over  her  shoulder. 

"  It  is  so  odd  about  Will  Burroughs,"  said  Louisa. 
"  One  forgets  that  he  does  anything  at  all,  and  he 
seems  actually  to  do  a  great  many  things  very  well. 
I'm  afraid  one  likes  him  and  is  amused  by  him,  even 
uses  him,  more  than  one  appreciates  him." 

"  He  paints  because  he  likes  to,  just  as  he  plays, 
or,"  he  smiled,  "  as  he  talks  to  a  woman.  Bur- 
roughs has  a  natural-born  facility  which  might  take 
a  hard  worker  anywhere.  I  wish  I  had  it,"  he  con- 
sidered her  absently.  "  I  have  decided  to  paint  you 


130  FAME-SEEKERS 

by  the  fire.  The  greyish  dress  will  be  very  fine  there. 
I  have  put  the  box  your  cook  brought  in  the  bed- 
room there."  He  indicated  the  room  off  the  studio. 
"  I  am  very  much  afraid  you  will  find  the  room  cold 
to  dress  in,  though  I  have  had  the  door  open  all  day 
trying  to  get  the  chill  off." 

"  I  shall  not  mind,"  declared  Louisa.  "  I  shall 
dress  quickly. 

"  We'd  better  get  to  work,"  suggested  Keating, 
"  for  the  afternoons  are  short." 

Louisa  hurried  precipitately  into  the  little  room 
and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

It  was  Keating's  room,  of  course!  She  glanced 
about  her  timidly  as  she  took  the  pins  out  of  her  hat. 
A  sudden  thought  of  her  sister  brought  the  red 
surging  over  her  face.  To  Mrs.  Gleason,  Louisa's 
presence  there  could  have  been  regarded  as  nothing 
less  than  an  escapade.  The  room  was  very  small 
and  narrow,  and  one  wall  sloped  over  till  it  met  the 
other,  telling  the  story  of  the  roof  just  above.  The 
wall-paper  was  yellowed  and  cracked,  the  flower-trel- 
lis design  all  but  faded  away.  The  wash-stand  was 
a  pine  table  converted  by  means  of  a  piece  of  oil- 
cloth and  a  "  set  "  of  cheap  crockery.  Above  it 
hung  a  small  mirror  on  a  nail,  a  distorting  glass 
which  caught  dizzily  at  the  light.  A  nondescript 
cotton  curtain  hung  from  the  edge  of  a  board  shelf 
to  the  floor  and  bulged  all  along  in  lines  so  human 
that  they  made  Louisa  flush  again.  She  wondered 


MORE  BEGINNINGS  181 

which  human  line  stood  for  the  old  cut-away  coat! 
And  the  bed?  Louisa's  eyes  came  back  to  that  again 
and  again.  It  was  so  curiously  out  of  key  with  the 
wash-stand  and  the  one  rickety  chair.  It  was  an 
Empire  bed,  mahogany  and  bronze,  and  over  it  was 
spread  a  fine  old  embroidered  crepe  shawl.  It  was, 
to  be  sure,  the  sort  of  bed  which  is  to  be  found,  two 
or  three  times  over,  in  every  antique  shop  from  the 
Seine  to  the  Observatoire,  and  for  very  little  money. 
But  it  was  big  and  pretentious  and  an  intriguing 
occupant  of  the  sordid  little  room.  Above  the  bed, 
and  caught  by  four  pins  to  conquer  the  slope  of  the 
wall,  was  an  engraving  of  a  decoration  by  Boucher, 
a  florid  and  a  gracious  thing  of  women  and  drapery, 
treated  with  that  wise  airiness  which  is  lost  in  our 
modern  directness ;  —  the  airiness  of  the  scholarly 
dandy  permitting  himself  a  talented  lark  on  canvas. 
Louisa  tugged  at  the  cord  about  her  dress-box  and 
blushed  again  at  the  disconcerting  row  of  shoe-toes 
protruding  beneath  the  cotton  curtain  over  Keat- 
ing's  clothes.  She  hurried  with  her  dress,  looking 
out  of  the  window  as  she  fastened  the  silvery  belt. 
There  was  a  frail  iron  balcony  outside  the  French 
window  and  through  the  design  of  the  grilling  she 
could  see  tree-tops,  the  garret  windows  opposite  with 
their  empty  flower-boxes  and  sagging  curtains,  and 
over  it  all  the  cold  winter  sky.  The  curtains  in 
Keating's  room  were  of  coarse  white  stuff,  but  they 
were  beautifully  clean.  Over  the  bed  was  another 


132  FAME-SEEKERS 

window,  a  tiny  square  of  light,  like  a  prison  win- 
dow. There  was  a  white  curtain  at  that  too.  Cer- 
tainly Keating  was  a  good  housekeeper.  She  took 
a  deep  breath  and  went  into  the  studio,  closing  the 
door  behind  her  carefully,  as  if  to  close  in  safely 
some  new  and  disturbing  experience. 

Louisa  felt  thoroughly  awkward  and  self-conscious 
for  almost  the  first  time  in  her  life,  and  the  selecting 
of  the  pose  tortured  her.  But  Keating  had  plunged 
his  mind  into  the  business  in  hand,  and  she  found 
herself  in  the  amazing  position  of  being  treated  like 
a  chair,  or  any  other  piece  of  furniture.  "You," 
she  hesitated,  then  laughed,  "  you  look  at  me  as  if  I 
were  just  another  blue  plate!"  She  felt  a  little 
ease  from  the  daring. 

"  By  Jove,  I  wish  you  were !  "  grumbled  Keating 
critically.  "  It's  a  funny  thing.  A  woman  floats 
around  like  a  feather  and  you  ask  her  to  pose  and 
right  off  she's  stiff  as  a  poker ! " 

Louisa  gasped.  She  found  an  unexpected  confi- 
dence at  last  in  an  awakened  desire  to  help,  saw  that 
something  even  depended  upon  her  sympathy  and 
her  subservience.  That  helped  her,  and  the  after- 
noon flew  by,  as  the  first  afternoon  always  does,  the 
time  more  than  filled  with  finding  the  pose,  placing 
the  figure  on  the  canvas,  the  drawing  and  the  lay- 
ing-in  of  the  first  colour.  The  daylight  was  gone 
before  they  realised  that  the  work  had  actually  be- 
gun. 


MORE  BEGINNINGS  133 

Keating  posed  her  with  the  chimney-corner  as  a 
background ;  not  too  near,  but  with  her  slim  figure 
silhouetted  against  the  creamy  tone  of  the  prints 
on  the  wall. 

"  I  must  keep  the  corner  silvery  and  let  all  of  the 
light  burst,"  he  laughed,  "  upon  your  head !  Think 
you'll  be  able  to  stand  that  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  afraid,"  she  smiled.  She  stood  beside 
him  looking  at  the  start.  "  Isn't  it  ghostly ! "  she 
shuddered  a  little,  glancing  up  at  him. 

"  It's  a  promise ! "  said  Keating.  "  Good  starts 
are  all  good  promises,  nearly  all  of  'em,  mine  at 
least,  broken  promises  in  the  end ! "  He  sorted  out 
his  brushes,  putting  the  clean  ones  carefully  aside. 
"  I'll  wash  them  while  you  dress.  They'll  be  dry  by 
to-morrow  then."  He  went  to  the  stove  and  took 
the  steaming  kettle,  then  to  the  sink  in  the  corner 
where  the  comfort  of  "  running  water  "  made  small 
pretence  at  being  also  decorative.  He  looked  around 
at  her  as  the  steam  rose  from  the  hot  water.  "  I'm 
gloriously  tired,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  A  little,"  said  Louisa  ambiguously. 

"  I'll  put  on  fresh  water.  Go  ahead  and  dress, 
then  we'll  have  some  tea." 

Louisa  nodded  and  went  into  the  little  room  again. 
She  could  hear  Keating  whistling  like  a  boy.  He 
rattled  the  tea-dishes  and  shook  the  stove  down  so 
noisily  that  she  laughed  into  the  wobbly  little  mir- 
ror just  to  hear  him.  Evidently,  "  work  "  made  him 


184  FAME-SEEKERS 

happy!  She  came  out  again  with  her  hat  on  and 
her  jacket  and  furs  over  her  arm. 

They  had  tea  at  the  corner  of  the  table  where 
stood  Keating's  books  and  the  little  Chinese  vase 
of  flowers.  Louisa's  dress  was  a  shadowy  blue  cloth, 
her  hat  was  a  soft  drooping  felt,  and  a  thick  black 
feather  fell  across  it  and  upon  her  bright  hair.  Her 
dark  furs  hung  over  the  chair  at  her  back.  As  she 
turned  the  little  yellow  vase  about  in  her  hand  and 
bent  her  head  over  the  flowers  now  and  then,  Keat- 
ing sighed  to  see  what  a  wealth  of  pictures  she  em- 
bodied, and  he  told  her  so,  so  frankly,  that  she  for- 
got to  be  embarrassed.  She  remembered  with  a  little 
smile  how  she  had  asked  Keating  to  treat  her  as  a 
client,  and  how  she  had  meant  to  be  reserved  and 
careful.  Keating  needed  one  half-hour  of  work  to 
make  him  forget  everything  else,  to  make  him  as 
happy  and  impervious  to  mere  manners  as  some  king 
in  a  land  without  law. 

Louisa  walked  home  light  as  air.  She  tossed  back 
her  furs  and  she  held  up  her  head,  and  from  his  door 
to  Nathalie's  she  thought  not  once  of  whether  she 
had  met,  or  would  meet,  any  one  whom  she  knew. 
So  much  for  the  pride  of  one  well-conducted,  indus- 
trious afternoon! 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    UNEXPECTED 

ALL  glory  to  the  pride  of  mere  doing,  but  the  way 
to  glory  is  a  hard  one,  and  the  mere  man  who  toils 
that  way  must  also  live.  Keating  was  a  plodder. 
He  was  a  man  of  slow  force,  sensitive  and  of  great 
heart;  a  man  with  whom  gruffness  was  a  mask  for 
tenderness,  and  noisiness  a  voice  for  embarrassment. 
Each  step  he  had  gained  ahead  had  been  paid  for  as 
it  had  been  gained.  Opportunity  might  have  hur- 
ried him  on,  but  opportunity  so  seldom  seeks  out  a 
workshop  in  a  by-way.  Besides,  if  opportunity  had 
come  to  Keating  he'd  have  had,  simply,  to  toil  the 
deeper  to  do  thoroughly  again  all  the  inches  of  a 
long  step  ahead.  He  was  no  pretender,  and  he  loved 
work  as  lighter  men  love  pastimes.  The  portrait  of 
Louisa  Garth  was  the  most  important  canvas  that 
he  had  ever  undertaken,  and  it  so  held  him,  nerve  and 
muscle,  that,  while  he  worked,  he  realised  no  effort. 
Keating's  days  had  always  been  full,  each  of  its  own 
problems,  and  he'd  kept  something  of  the  boy's  way 
of  living  all  for  the  moment.  In  the  twilights,  after 
Louisa  had  gone,  he  looked  a  long  time,  and  deeply, 
into  the  portrait ;  and  he  knew  that  it  was  going 

135 


136  FAME-SEEKERS 

well,  he  even  hoped  something  from  it  towards  the 
future.  The  far  future,  no  doubt!  The  immediate 
future  he  dared  not,  would  not,  face,  till  the  canvas 
was  done.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  that. 

Louisa,  catching  Keating's  intensity,  had  posed 
faithfully  and  seriously.  Not  that  Keating  appre- 
ciated, or  even  seemed  to  realise,  either  her  effort  or 
fatigue.  She  began  to  understand  that  here  was  a 
man,  a  workman,  who  took  faithfulness  and  serious- 
ness for  granted  from  another  even  as  he  took  them 
for  granted  in  himself.  Louisa's  pride  was  going 
through  a  strange  experience,  and  her  judgment  was 
widening  its  eyes  before  new  wonders.  For  Keat- 
ing, the  man  of  crude  manners,  the  man  who  had 
shocked  her  and  humbled  her,  was  another  creature 
at  his  work,  was  as  gentle  with  his  paint  as  she  was 
used  to  seeing  men  be  gentle  with  women,  and  a  very 
few  days'  posing  gave  her  back  her  first  impression 
of  him.  It  was  as  if  a  veil  had  been  drawn  over  the 
time  between  that  evening  at  sea  when  she  had  seen 
him  for  the  first  time,  standing  with  Burroughs,  out- 
side the  dining-saloon  window  among  the  steerage 
passengers,  watching,  obliviously,  a  sunset.  She 
remembered  how  she  had  eagerly  asked  Burroughs 
who  his  steerage  friend  was  when  he  had  come  in  to 
dinner.  She'd  asked  it  lightly !  Keating,  in  his  own 
studio,  occupied,  in  his  working  clothes  and  among 
his  own  things,  justified  himself  completely.  She 
sighed  over  the  disconcerting  fact  that  all  hours  were 


THE  UNEXPECTED  137 

not  working-hours  and  that  Keating  at  play  was 
not  yet  justified.  His  teachers  of  play  would  de- 
mand high  wages,  she  even  glimpsed  that,  and  they'd 
fail  probably  in  the  end !  It  would  be  Keating  who'd 
laugh,  and  take  them  in  hand. 

Above  all  it  was  Keating,  the  painter,  that  baffled 
and  humbled  her.  Watching  him  sent  the  blood  into 
her  face  again  and  again,  made  her  remember  things 
she'd  said  to  Nathalie,  that  Nathalie  had  said  to  her, 
their  impertinent  concern  for  the  simple  man  and  his 
unfitness  before  the  mystery  of  women's  clothes  !  For, 
to  her  bewilderment,  Keating  had  so  entirely  grasped 
the  character  of  the  subtle,  smoky  dress,  had  so 
adroitly  controlled  its  flowing  lines,  had  so  cleverly 
gathered  all  the  loose  ends  of  the  stuff  into  their  in- 
tended form  and  style  with  his  beautiful  drawing  of 
the  wrinkled  belt  of  silver  cloth,  that  Louisa  was  ready 
to  confess  herself  beaten.  Slowly  it  was  dawning 
upon  her;  that  mystic,  that  impenetrable,  that  su- 
preme gift  of  the  born  painter,  that  precious  compass 
of  his  for  the  appearance  of  things,  that  painter's 
vision  which  serves  him  in  the  place  of  experience, 
which  guides  him  till  experience  has  had  time  to  come, 
which  in  the  end  makes  of  experience  a  thing  worth 
the  pain  of  it. 

One  afternoon  Keating  sat  boyishly  back  in  his 
chair  a  moment.  "  How  much  did  that  lovely  rag- 
tag you've  got  on  cost,  hey?  "  he  asked  her. 

Louisa  stared  down  at  her  sleeve.     "  Seven  hundred 


138  FAME-SEEKERS 

francs,"  she  told  him  and  in  spite  of  herself  felt  as 
if  at  confession. 

His  face  went  blank  and  he  sat  farther  back,  then 
he  laid  down  his  palette  and  brushes  and  came  to- 
wards her,  fascinated.  "  Gee  whiz !  "  he  whispered, 
taking  a  bit  of  the  stuff  in  his  hand.  "  It's  silver- 
lined  ?  "  And  he  worked  no  more  for  an  hour,  walk- 
ing about,  thinking  it  over,  scowling  and  laughing  by 
turns. 

Louisa  had  heard  that  many  women  lied  about  the 
price  of  their  clothes  in  order  to  save  trouble.  She 
felt  that  such  a  lie  might  be  justifiable! 

During  the  mornings  among  the  book-binders, 
while  Louisa's  head  was  bent  above  her  work,  and 
while  her  hands  —  taking  on  the  wise  little  movements 
now  of  women's  hands  that  have  gained  skill  in  one 
sort  of  doing  or  another  —  were  busy  with  her  books, 
her  thoughts  played  keenly  over  the  prospect  of  the 
afternoon,  gone  or  to  come,  of  posing.  And,  curi- 
ously, the  book-binders,  with  their  sharp  eyes  and  ful- 
some chatter,  had  about  ceased  to  annoy  her  as  they 
had  used  to  do.  She  even  listened  with  a  kind  of 
amusement  to  the  strange  tales  they  had  to  tell  of 
"  well-known "  people.  And,  for  the  gold-haired 
Swede,  she  achieved  cordial  good-mornings  and  good- 
nights  with  scarcely  a  thought  for  the  mystery  of 
the  hours  between  day's  work  and  day's  work. 
Louisa  was  glimpsing  the  camaraderie  that  surfaces 
all  the  professional  world,  that  hides  away  the  snowy 
peaks  of  class,  helps  on  the  high-born  gifted  to  profit 


THE  UNEXPECTED  139 

by  the  beauty  there  may  be  in  bending  down,  that 
lifts  the  low-born  talented  ones  out  of  dreariness,  and 
makes  of  all  the  working  hours  a  life  apart  from  the 
lives  at  home.  And  her  hardest  lesson  here  had  been 
—  as  it  had  with  Keating  —  that,  for  all  her  self- 
confidence,  they'd  been  so  slow  to  take  her  in.  They 
had  never  taken  her  in.  She  could  not  pretend  that 
they  had.  They  accepted  her  and  ignored  her. 
They  thought  her  a  prig,  or  a  fraud,  and  they 
laughed  at  her  with  good-humoured  disgust. 

One  stone  had  been  thrown  to  ripple  the  quiet 
surface  of  the  days  of  posing.  Keating  had  a  passion 
for  verse,  liked  taking  his  lessons  in  life  from  the 
philosophers  who'd  been  artists  as  well,  could  —  he 
owned  it  —  get  at  a  man's  book  when  the  man  him- 
self would  have  "  scared  "  him.  "  Poets  are  awful 
dogs,  I  guess,"  he  had  put  it  one  day  to  Louisa. 
Then,  one  unguarded  afternoon,  Louisa  had,  im- 
pulsively and  in  all  sweetness,  offered  to  rebind  his 
dog-eared  volumes  of  Browning.  Keating,  his  face 
working  in  frank  alarm,  had  gathered  his  two  old 
books  to  him  and  had  flatly  refused.  That  had  hurt, 
but  a  woman  will  forgive  rather  than  lose.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  gained  in  arguing  with  Keating. 
He'd  only  have  laughed. 

One  afternoon  Louisa  came  in  to  pose,  fresh  and 
gay,  and  with  all  the  spice  of  the  fine  wintry  air 
clinging  to  her  clothes  and  gleaming  upon  her  face 
and  hair.  She  found  Keating  standing  before  his 
easel  looking,  over  his  folded  arms,  at  his  canvas, 


140  FAME  SEEKERS 

and  a  very  storm  of  shadows  upon  his  face.  He  had 
not  even  stirred  to  let  her  in,  but  had  called  out  to 
her  to  "come  in."  "Are  you  —  ill?"  she  hurried 
to  him,  looking  into  his  eyes  in  concern. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  shortly,  "  I'm  love-sick." 

Terror  caught  her.  She  tried  to  draw  her  hand 
away.  She  laughed  aloud,  and  strangely.  "  Don't 
you  —  like  the  portrait  —  after  all?"  she  asked  in 
aimless  terror. 

"  I  like  it  altogether  too  well,"  he  held  her  hand 
tight.  "  The  trouble  is  that  the  painting  is  nearly 
over;  that  the  picture,  the  excuse  for  your  coming 
here,  is  all  but  gone.  I'll  have  to  eat  my  heart  out 
and  learn  to  do  without  you  all  over  again." 

The  painted  face  with  smiling  eyes  and  mouth 
looked  down  upon!  them  seeing  nothing,  telling  noth- 
ing, the  painted  mouth  as  banal  as  a  butterfly  pinned 
to  a  card. 

Louisa's  heart  leaped  and  fell.  Everything  was 
falling  about  her.  She  took  frantic  refuge  in  banter. 
"  Why  not  —  paint  more  slowly !  "  Shame  drowned 
her,  and  flippancy  fell  flat. 

Without  warning  —  unless  the  too  even  mood  of 
all  the  afternoons  of  work  were  in  themselves  a  warn- 
ing —  Keating  caught  her  and  dragged  her  to  him. 
He  bent  her  head  back  and  looked  into  her  face,  his 
hand  disregarding  her  hat  and  hair. 

"  Why  won't  you  let  me  be?  "  he  whispered  roughly. 

"But  I  have  let  you  be!  Oh,  don't!"  and  she 
struggled  to  get  away  from  him. 


THE  UNEXPECTED  141 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  demanded,  holding  her  closer. 

Slowly  the  colour  slipped  out  of  her  face.  She  re- 
laxed and  stared  back  into  his  eyes,  the  question 
echoing  back  and  forth  from  one  face  to  the  other. 

"I  —  do  not  know  —  why  not,"  she  sighed  and 
closed  her  eyes. 

Keating  laughed,  and  turning  her  about  so  that 
he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  portrait,  he  kissed  her 
again  and  again,  her  utter  frailty  driving  him  on. 
He  let  all  the  mockery  of  his  eyes  gleam  straight  into 
hers. 

With  all  her  strength  concentrated  in  one  effort, 
she  dragged  herself  away  from  him  and  stood  holding 
fast  to  his  wrists  with  her  small  hands. 

He  lifted  his  arms  and  looked  at  her  straining 
fingers  and  he  laughed,  then  he  loosened  her  fingers 
one  at  a  time  and  pretended  to  shake  himself  free  of 
her. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said  shortly,  "  we  are  here  to 
paint!  "  He  turned  to  his  canvas  and  stared  at  it 
stubbornly,  his  head  low  and  forward. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said  brokenly,  and  moved 
towards  the  door. 

"  No,  no ! "  said  Keating,  lifting  his  head  and 
facing  her  squarely.  "  You  must  not  do  that !  The 
portrait  is  worth  more  than  —  all  the  rest,  to  me. 
And  should  be  to  you ! "  he  added  with  an  insistent 
gesture. 

Louisa  was  white.  "  I  have  scarcely  been  allowed 
to  keep  to  my  standard !  "  she  reminded  him. 


142  FAME-SEEKERS 

"  Oh,"  he  moved  his  arm  with  a  gesture  of  fatigue, 
"don't  bluff!  There's  no  need.  It's  not  a  bit  of 
use  with  me."  He  stiffened  his  shoulders  and  Louisa 
saw,  and  thought  of  it  later,  how  loosely  his  coat 
hung  about  him.  He  wheeled  about  angrily.  "  Will 
you  kindly  get  ready  to  pose?  " 

For  a  long  moment  they  looked  at  one  another, 
then  Louisa,  too  woman-wise  to  be  afraid  of  the  man, 
but  in  terror  of  the  tears  that  were  choking  her, 
turned  and  went  —  for  the  last  time,  she  vowed  it !  — 
into  Keating's  room  to  dress. 

The  little  room  had  grown  very  familiar  to  her,  the 
colour  of  the  old  wall-paper  and  the  light  through 
the  simple  curtains  having  gained  way  in  her  mind 
over  the  crudities  and  inconsistencies.  Now  he  had 
spoilt  it  for  her,  and  had  made  her  timid  and  afraid 
again.  But  where  was  her  dress?  Usually  it  was 
upon  the  chair  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  She  glanced 
at  the  bulging  curtain  underneath  which  hung  Keat- 
ing's clothes  and  her  face  flushed  hotly.  It  was  there, 
just  at  the  end.  She  could  see  a  bit  of  the  silver 
belt  gleaming  against  the  yellowed  paper.  With  an 
unsteady  hand  she  took  the  dress  down  off  the  hook 
and  her  heart  stumbled  as  the  back  of  her  hand 
brushed  against  Keating's  clothes.  She  heard  Keat- 
ing walking  up  and  down  the  floor  in  the  studio  and 
she  started  guiltily  and  dropped  the  curtain,  and 
carried  her  dress  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A    WIRE    HAIRPIN 

LOUISA  was  standing,  head  bent  and  hands  struggling 
with  the  hooks  at  the  back  of  her  dress,  when  all  at 
once  her  eyes  were  caught  and  held  by  something 
on  the  wash-stand.  Her  hands  dropped,  her  dress 
sagged  off  her  shoulders  again,  her  lips  parted  and 
her  eyes  grew  dark  and  hard.  Slowly  she  lifted  a 
hand  and  with  one  finger  drew  the  thing  forth  from 
where  it  was  half  hidden  under  the  bowl.  It  was 
nothing  but  a  wire  hairpin ;  an  ordinary  thing  with 
a  little  patent  quirk  in  the  wire  to  prevent  it  from 
falling  out.  She  had  never  owned  a  hairpin  like 
that  in  all  the  days  of  her  life!  She  knew  that  it 
had  not  been  there  the  day  before,  because  she  had 
gotten  paint  on  her  hands  and  had  washed  them  in 
the  bowl.  Her  eyes  could  be  trusted  not  to  have 
missed  seeing  it  if  it  had  been  there  when  she  had 
emptied  the  water  from  the  bowl.  Keating  was 
painting  no  one  else.  He  had  told  her  so  himself. 
Pain,  humiliating  pain,  caught  her  tight  and  held 
her.  She  must  get  away,  away,  anywhere  so  that 
she  need  never  see  the  man  or  the  place  he  lived  in 


again ! 


143 


144?  FAME-SEEKERS 

When  she  came  into  the  studio  Keating  was  stand- 
ing near  the  stove  putting  fresh  paint  upon  his 
palette.  She  went  straight  to  him.  "  We  have 
blundered  once  more,"  she  said,  in  a  hard,  dry  voice 
and  with  no  sign  of  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  No  doubt 
it  has  been  as  much  my  fault  as  yours.  But  it  must 
not  happen  again.  If  it  does  happen  again  I  shall 
stay  away  altogether.  If  you  want  to  finish  the  por- 
trait you  must  help  me  to  see  that  it  does  not  happen 
again.  Will  you  please  go  to  work?  Because  I 
must,  I  want  to  go  home  early  to-day." 

Keating  looked  at  her  over  his  palette  with  a 
mirthless  laugh.  "  You  honestly  want  to  go  ?  " 

She  shrank  back  and  caught  her  breath,  she  stared 
at  him  a  moment  as  if  something  had  threatened  her, 
then  she  spoke,  with  determination  at  least.  "  I  hon- 
estly want  to." 

"  I  don't  believe  you,"  he  said  with  a  dogged  smile. 
"  But  you  are  right,  and  you  shall  go.  It  is  the 
best  thing  you  can  do,  to-day.  Then  to-morrow  — " 
he  laughed,  "  we'll  begin  all  over  again  ?  " 

Louisa  did  not  answer  and  they  went  to  work  in 
silence.  As  he  painted  she  watched  Keating  warily. 
He  was  white,  and  his  face  was  set,  and  as  he  lifted 
his  brush  to  the  canvas  she  noticed  that  his  wrists 
were  thin.  This  time  she  forgot  even  to  notice  the 
absence  of  cuffs.  Louisa's  eyes  deepened  over  the 
thought  that  he  might  be  suffering,  was  doing  with- 
out things  that  a  big-framed  young  man  should  hare 


A  WIRE  HAIRPIN  145 

in  order  to  do  his  work  well,  to  have  his  paints,  and 
canvases  and  the  rest.  She  felt  it  all  with  a  con- 
fession of  utter  weakness,  so  it  seemed  to  her,  felt 
it  above  his  brutality,  over  the  hurt  of  that  wretched 
little  wire  hairpin  and  the  ugly  thoughts  it  stirred. 
She  looked  away  from  the  thoughts.  She  did  not 
want  to  listen,  to  know;  it  hurt  so  to  know!  She 
forced  all  her  thoughts  towards  the  wondering  if  life 
was,  as  Burroughs  had  told  her  and  Nathalie  that 
he  suspected,  being  hard  upon  Keating.  Poverty ! 
She  had  never  been  shut  into  a  room  with  a  person 
in  possible  poverty,  in  want,  before. 

"  Don't  frown,  please,"  said  Keating,  frankly  an- 
noyed. 

Louisa  looked  at  him,  smiled  curiously,  then  went 
on  with  her  thoughts.  "  Perhaps,"  she  suggested 
remotely,  "  it  would  be  a  good  idea  to  work  on  my 
dress  to-day."  Keating  did  not  answer  except  by  a 
prolonged  look  through  stubborn  eyes  at  her  hair, 
her  throat,  her  face.  She  was  able,  in  spite  of  all 
that  had  happened,  to  be  momentarily  amused  with 
his  obstinacy.  She  went  on  in  her  thoughts  trying 
to  understand  his  situation.  There  had  always  been 
a  good  fire  and  plenty  of  coal  in  the  box  in  the 
corner.  There  had  always  been  good  tea  and  fresh 
little  tea-cakes.  Details,  which  a  year  before  had 
not  existed  in  Louisa's  catalogue  of  life's  signs  of 
things,  now  loomed  large  and  kept  her  eyes  alert. 
She  tried,  as  she  stood  there,  Keating  watching  her 


146  FAME-SEEKERS 

mercilessly,  to  put  back  her  anxiety  for  his  circum- 
stances, to  let  her  anger  have  sway.  But  the  anger 
would  not  quite  rise.  Her  eyes  went  on  searching, 
her  heart  went  on  fluttering,  and  the  jealousy  twisted 
and  hurt  her,  but  anger  would  not  stay.  If  things 
were  worse  than  usual  then  he  knew  how  to  hide  all 
that  was  tell-tale  except  his  own  gaunt  pallor,  and 
the  curious  gaze  of  loneliness  that  clamours  for  the 
man  who  will  not,  or  cannot,  speak  for  himself.  The 
trouble  lives  in  his  eyes  and  it  is  the  one  thing  he 
cannot  hide,  or  smooth  over:  any  hunger  whether 
of  body  or  of  mind,  does,  sooner  or  later,  get  up  and 
cry  out  above  its  victim's  pride. 

For  Louisa  the  afternoon  dragged.  They  did  not 
talk,  there  was  too  much  to  say ;  they  were  even  sul- 
len. The  studio  became  oppressively  silent.  At  last 
Keating  laid  down  his  brushes  and  said  that  he  had 
had  enough  of  it.  Without  daring  to  glance  at  him, 
Louisa  hurried  into  the  little  room.  She  was  hurt, 
she  was  angry,  she  was  tired  beyond  words.  Her 
eyes  fell  upon  the  little  hairpin  and  with  an  impulse 
of  very  fury  she  swept  her  hand  over  the  oil-cloth  and 
threw  it  upon  the  floor,  then  she  walked  far  around  it, 
and  did  not  look  that  way  again. 

The  temper  shamed  her,  but  it  eased  her  too,  and 
she  came  back  to  the  studio,  composed  and  able  to 
look  at  Keating  without  a  change  of  colour. 

"  Shall  you  need  me  many  more  times  ?  "  she  asked, 
standing  a  moment  by  the  door. 


A  WIRE  HAIRPIN  147 

Keating  crossed  the  room  and  stood  before  her. 
"  Don't  be  afraid,"  he  smiled  as  she  stood,  with  white 
face,  close  against  the  door.  "  I've  learned  my  lesson 
this  time.  Do  you  imagine  that  it  is  any  great 
treat  to  me  to  have  you  here  like  this?  It  will  take 
about  two  more  poses,  and  you  can  trust  me  to  finish 
in  one  if  I'm  able  to." 

"  Yes  ?  "  she  said  in  a  voice  she  did  not  hear  as  her 
own.  "  Shall  you  want  me  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to-morrow,"  said  Keating. 

"  Very  well.  At  two  o'clock  to-morrow  then." 
She  smiled  inconsequentially  and  with  a  "  Good- 
night "  that  was  lifeless  as  paper  she  got  out  of  the 
place,  Keating  closing  the  door  after  her. 

If  Keating  could  have  seen  her  hesitating,  looking 
at  his  door  after  he  had  closed  it,  things  might  have 
turned  madly  enough  for  the  two  of  them.  So  much 
for  the  blank,  voiceless,  saving  part  that  the  closed 
door  plays  in  life.  A  woman  will  walk  straight  into 
tragedy  with  a  man's  hand  holding  hers  more  easily 
than  she  will  reopen  a  door  that  his  hands  have 
closed.  Pride  and  the  closed  door  are  saving  con- 
spirators; admitting  that  it's  worth  while  being 
saved ! 

Keating  went  back  to  his  canvas,  stood  looking  into 
it  with  his  own  mask  off.  He  was  face  to  face  with 
more  than  his  portrait,  for,  the  girl  once  out  of  the 
place,  his  problems  came  forward,  more  urgent,  too, 
than  any  question  of  the  girl  herself. 


148  FAME-SEEKERS 

He  went  to  the  table  where  their  untouched  tea  was 
arranged.  The  cakes  lay  upon  an  old  blue  plate,  and 
they  tempted  him,  for  he  had  eaten  no  luncheon. 
Since  the  beginning  of  the  portrait  he  had  gotten  up 
late  that  coffee  and  rolls  might  serve  him  for  lunch- 
eon and  breakfast.  He  made  himself  a  pot  of  tea 
and  drank  it,  strong  and  clear,  but  he  put  the  cakes 
carefully  away  in  a  tight  tin  box.  He  counted  them 
as  he  laid  them  in  one  at  a  time.  "  If  I  let  them  be 
they'll  hold  out  two  more  days.  They'll  be  a  littl* 
dry  perhaps,  but  it  is  the  best  that  we  can  do ! " 

The  tea  warmed  him  and  he  wheeled  the  easel  about 
and  looked  at  his  canvas  from  the  length  of  the  room. 
"  It's  good,"  he  sighed,  and  hope  crept  over  him 
again  and  soothed  him.  He  washed  his  brushes 
at  the  sink  in  the  corner  and  as  he  laid  them  on  the 
zinc  under  the  stove  to  dry,  he  fell  into  his  habit 
of  absent-minded  whistling. 

Keating  was  used  to  tight  corners,  to  low  food  and 
cold.  With  the  utmost  care  he  covered  the  live  coals 
in  the  stove  under  a  blanket  of  ashes.  One  idea  pos- 
sessed him  and  stirred  all  his  stubborn  determination 
to  watchfulness.  Louisa  Garth  should  never  suspect 
that  he  was  out  of  money! 

As  for  dinner,  it  was  to  be  a  gala  night,  for  Bur- 
roughs had  invited  him  to  dine  with  a  couple  of  jour- 
nalists at  an  old  cafe  on  the  Quais  where  the  cooking 
was  good  enough  to  be  almost  wasted  on  a  too-hungry 
man.  Afterwards  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  though 


A  WIRE  HAIRPIN  149 

he  hated  It,  to  have  a  talk  with  Burroughs.  Keating 
had  found  out  the  fact  that  a  man  can't  pick  up  work 
in  Paris  as  he  can  in  his  own  country,  that  the  will 
to  work  won't  —  can't,  even  —  find  work  for  him 
to  do. 

He  glanced  out  of  the  window  to  guess  at  the  time, 
for  his  watch  had  gone  away  after  the  vagrant  fash- 
ion of  watches  in  liberal  Quartiers  where  living  is  so 
largely  hoping.  He'd  go  outside  and  walk  about  till 
time  to  meet  Burroughs  at  the  cafe. 

He  went  into  his  room  to  put  on  a  warmer  coat. 
Louisa's  dress  was  lying  over  the  chair  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  He  picked  it  up  by  the  collar  as  if  it  might 
have  been  a  pet  puppy.  With  a  kind  of  rough  gen- 
tleness he  smoothed  the  soft  stuff  and  considered  the 
colour.  Then  he  hung  it  out  of  the  way  of  dust  on 
a  peg  at  the  end  of  the  shelf  under  the  curtain.  He 
chanted  a  Southern  melody  as  he  thrust  his  arms 
into  his  coat, —  three  tries  in  and  out  of  one  sleeve 
before  he  came  successfully  through  the  tattered  lin- 
ing. He  peered  into  his  mirror,  regarding  himself 
absently,  then,  as  he  bent  his  head  to  get  his  brush 
and  comb  out  of  the  wash-stand  drawer,  his  eyes  fell 
upon  the  hairpin  lying  on  the  floor  where  Louisa's 
small,  angry  hand  had  swept  it.  The  singing 
stopped.  "  She's  dropped  a  hairpin !  "  He  stooped 
and  picked  it  up,  he  turned  it  about  and  laid  it  on 
the  palm  of  his  hand  examining  the  little  patent  quirk 
with  interest.  Then  once  more  his  inexperience 


150  FAME-SEEKERS 

tripped  him  up.  It  would  never  have  occurred  to 
Keating  that  different  sorts  of  women  might  be  rep- 
resented by  different  sorts  of  hairpins,  and,  whistling 
again,  he  stuck  the  little  wire  hairpin  into  a  crack 
in  the  wall-paper  just  beneath  the  mirror  where 
Louisa  would  be  certain  to  see  it  when  she  came  again 
the  next  day. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

WHILE    A    CITY    SLEEPS 

MOON  and  stars  were  spraying  Paris  with  a  silvery 
mist,  melting  the  face  of  things  back  to  the  fabric  of 
some  fantastic  dream.  Towers  lifted  into  the  still 
skies  like  ecclesiastical  fingers  velvet-clad,  and  be- 
tween the  fingers  of  the  dramatic  hand  writhed  and 
slipped  the  Seine,  its  rippling  scales  changed  by  the 
witchery  of  the  moon  into  a  million  stars.  Tardy 
river-craft  crept  through  the  bridges,  away  into  shad- 
owy, lightly-rocking  moorings,  shaking  off  trails  of 
light  as  they  passed  —  more  stars !  The  edges  of 
all  things  drifted  off  into  the  mirrored  spaces,  and 
life,  above  and  below,  was  sunk  in  its  hour  of  intro- 
spection, deep  in  its  midnight. 

Burroughs  and  Keating  had  left  the  two  men  with 
whom  they  had  dined,  and  they  came  away  from  the 
river  and  up  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel  together, 
walking  briskly  through  the  frosty  air.  They  skirted 
the  gardens  of  the  Luxembourg,  looking  in  on  the 
trees  through  the  high  grille  as  they  passed.  The 
old  trees  were  as  still  behind  the  locked  garden-gates, 
as  the  babies  who  came  every  day  to  play  beneath 
them  were  still  behind  the  locked  gates  of  their  dream- 

151 


16*  FAME-SEEKERS 

land,  or  as  the  great  men,  who  had  played  beneath 
them  long  ago,  were  still  behind  the  locked  gates  of 
the  Pantheon  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  near  by.  The 
potency  and  rhythm  of  city-sleep  held  them  silent. 

As  they  passed  beneath  a  cluster  of  lights  near  one 
of  the  garden  gates,  Burroughs  was  shocked  again  to 
realise  the  change  the  last  six  months  had  wrought 
in  Keating,  and  in  their  silence  he  sensed  sharply,  as 
one  does  out  in  the  still  night,  the  impenetrable  isola- 
tion of  every  man,  the  walls  that  loom  between  the 
best  of  friends.  At  a  corner  a  little  further  on  where 
their  ways  separated  Keating  stopped  and  faced  Bur- 
roughs. "  If  you  aren't  in  a  hurry  about  turning 
in,  Burroughs,  I'd  like  to  go  up  to  your  place  and 
have  a  talk.  It's  too  cold  out  here  in  the  streets, 
and  I  can't  stand  a  cafe  any  more  after  midnight." 

"  Come  along,"  said  Burroughs,  and  he  led  the  way 
at  a  fair  pace.  For  Keating  to  complain  of  the  night 
air  fell  upon  Burroughs  like  the  advancing  shadow  of 
what  Keating  might  have  to  tell  him. 

They  rang  more  than  once  at  Burroughs'  gate  be- 
fore the  sleep-drugged  concierge  pulled  the  cord. 
The  jangling  of  the  bell  fell  like  blasphemy  upon  the 
stillness.  The  stairs  creaked  under  their  feet,  and 
the  key  grated  in  the  lock.  They  got  inside  and 
closed  the  door  with  a  sense  of  thankfulness,  the 
slightest  noises  had  grown  so  enormously  out  of  pro- 
portion in  the  quiet  of  the  night. 

Burroughs'  studio  was  a  beautiful  place,  and  com- 


WHILE  A  CITY  SLEEPS  153 

fortable.  He  had  had  it  for  years,  and  it  had  none 
of  the  look  of  transiency  and  make-shift  that  have  the 
places  of  the  painters  who  come  for  a  season.  The 
floor  was  dark  and  polished  till  it  looked  deep  as  a 
lake,  the  roof  was  very  high  and  crossed  with  beams. 
A  great  sky-light  with  a  white  curtain  on  rings  and 
cords  gave  almost  the  effect  of  being  in  a  sail-boat. 
The  south  wall  was  hung  with  a  fine  old  tapestry,  a 
lady  on  a  white  horse,  surrounded  by  the  traditional 
forest,  castle,  rocks  and  sky,  making  by  no  means  a 
bad  sort  of  shore  to  sail  by !  A  big  stove  in  the  cor- 
ner attended  faithfully  to  the  climate.  Burroughs 
lighted  a  lamp  and  after  a  glance  at  Keating's  face 
he  carefully  lowered  the  red  shade,  then  he  shoved  two 
comfortable  chairs  near  the  fire.  Keating  sat  in  his 
overcoat,  letting  his  soft  hat  slip  down  on  the  floor 
beside  him.  He'd  grown  haggard,  and  he  slipped  low 
into  the  cushions,  with  his  hands  gripping  the  arms 
of  the  chair. 

"  What's  up,  man  ?  "  and  Burroughs  frowned  down 
upon  him.  "  Better  smoke.  You  look  fagged. 
Have  you  your  pipe?  Here's  some  tobacco." 

Keating  got  out  his  pipe  and  with  fingers  that 
fumbled  he  stuffed  in  the  tobacco,  then  accepted  the 
light  Burroughs  held  towards  him. 

"  The  fact  is,"  Keating  looked  up  at  Burroughs 
with  a  misery  in  his  eyes  which  he  was  too  proud  to 
let  into  his  voice,  "  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  Bur- 
roughs, I've  got  to  borrow  money.  I  can't  get 


154  FAME-SEEKERS 

around  it,  for  I  can't  stop  my  portrait  to  go  to  work. 
Can  you  let  me  have  —  a  hundred  francs,  Burroughs, 
without  putting  yourself  out  ?  " 

His  voice  had  sunk  to  a  whisper,  and  naming  the 
sum  was  a  kind  of  dying  to  him. 

Burroughs  had  to  make  an  effort  to  steady  his  own 
voice.  "  Is  that  all !  Are  you  sure,  Keating,  that 
you  don't  need  more  than  that?  It  isn't  much."  He 
took  out  his  bill-book  and  gave  Keating  a  moment  to 
ask  for  more  if  he  would. 

Keating  shook  his  head,  staring  hungrily  at  the 
leather  book. 

"  More !  My  God !  "  and  he  handled  the  note  and 
pressed  it  in  his  fingers.  "  It  seems  like  a  fortune  to 
me !  I'd  like  just  to  tell  you  how  I'm  fixed,"  he  said, 
searching  for  a  business-like  tone,  "  so  that  you  will 
understand  —  if  you  aren't  in  a  hurry  to  turn  in  ?  " 

"  Never  felt  less  like  sleep,"  declared  Burroughs 
frankly.  "  I  often  sit  out  here  half  the  night,  even 
when  I  am  alone."  He  felt  his  blood  rise  and  flush 
over  his  neck  and  face  in  the  darkness.  The  deep 
night  stillness  so  shut  them  in  that  intimacy  was 
forced  into  confession,  confession  into  deplorable 
nakedness  of  thought.  Of  course  it  was  Keating  who 
had  the  worst  of  it. 

Each  man  settled  into  his  chair.  Keating  had  put 
the  money  away  and  he  drew  at  his  pipe  with  a  great 
sigh.  "  It  is  the  portrait  which  has  drained  me  out," 
he  said. 


WHILE  A  CITY  SLEEPS  155 

"  I'm  not  surprised,"  and  the  smile  seemed  to  slip 
from  Keating's  face  across  Burroughs' —  a  smile  that 
all  painters  of  women  have  in  common.  *'  I  have 
painted  a  few  '  portraits  of  fair  women  '  myself ! 
It's  a  business,  like  any  other,  and  requires  something 
to  go  upon,  to  keep  up  the  stock  in  trade." 

Keating  turned  his  pipe  about  in  the  palm  of  his 
hand.  "  It  takes  more  money  than  none  at  all,  at 
any  rate."  For  a  moment  they  were  quiet,  resting 
and  taking  in  the  soothing  starry-blue  of  the  night 
sky  which  shone  down  upon  them  through  the  top- 
light.  "  You  see,  Burroughs,"  he  went  on  again  in 
a  voice  which  was  steady,  but  fine  and  low  as  the 
voice  is  always  of  one  who  has  just  lived  through  some 
racking  experience,  "  my  good  old  mother  left  me  all 
that  she  had.  It  wasn't  very  much  —  two  houses  in 
a  village  at  the  end  of  the  farm.  I  have  the  rents 
now  and  will  have  the  houses  when  my  father  dies. 
My  father  gave  them  to  her.  But  I  have  to  care  for 
them  and  assume  all  the  responsibility  by  way  of  earn- 
ing my  rents.  It  brings  me,  in  all,  thirty  dollars  a 
month.  She  had  saved  a  little  money,  mother  had. 
That  brought  me  across  and  furnished  my  studio. 
How  I'll  get  back  again  the  devil  only  knows.  I 
don't  much  care.  Fortunately  I  feel  in  no  hurry  to 
go  back.  My  rents ! "  he  laughed,  turning  the 
words  out  slowly.  "  It  sounds  well."  He  smoked, 
staring  into  the  fire,  in  his  favourite  pose  of  folded 
arms. 


156  FAME-SEEKERS 

"  Wouldn't  your  father  help  you  out  if  he  knew?  " 
Burroughs  looked  into  the  fire,  too. 

"  My  father  believes  me  to  be  a  fool.  The  wise  old 
man !  He  would  give  me  his  last  cent  if  I'd  crawl  to 
him,  if  I'd  tell  him  how  wise  he  is,  if  I'd  ask  him  to 
forgive  me,  if  I'd  hoe  corn  all  the  rest  of  my  days. 
I  like  him  for  it,"  he  smiled,  "  but  I  can't  crawl." 

"  After  all,"  said  Burroughs,  "  thirty  dollars  a 
month  is  something  to  start  with." 

"  It's  riches,"  said  Keating  sincerely.  "  But  one 
tenant  has  just  died  and  the  other  house  is  —  also 
empty,"  he  laughed  grimly.  "  It  needs  a  new 
roof.  Leaky  roofs  make  a  lot  of  trouble  in  this 
world!" 

The  money  in  Keating's  pocket  was  like  wine  to  a 
hungry  man ;  the  red  colour  burnt  in  spots  under  his 
eyes  and  he  talked  fast  and  nervously. 

"  I  could  have  gotten  through  this,  but  it's  the 
frame  for  the  portrait  that  I  can't  meet.  I  hardly 
know  how  I  have  crawled  through  the  last  month." 
He  sat  forward  in  his  chair  to  strike  his  pipe  against 
the  fender.  "  Except  for  that  little  white-faced  Mary 
and  her  easy  method  of  running  a  restaurant,  I'd 
have  about  starved.  As  it  is  I  have  not  imposed  upon 
her  more  than  I  had  to.  I  have  had  one  meal  a  day 
for  God  knows  how  long,  and,  Burroughs,  I've  been 
caving  in.  I'm  a  big  brute  and  I  need  food  terribly. 
Of  course,  except  for  the  chance  I  know  there  is  in 
the  portrait,  I'd  have  shut  up  my  paints  and  dug 


WHILE  A  CITY  SLEEPS  157 

trenches  weeks  ago.  A  man  can  always  get  his  food 
if  he  tries,  if  he'd  honestly  rather  try  than  starve. 
But  everybody  tells  me  that  I  have  a  good  chance  of 
being  made  a  member  if  I  just  get  the  right  thing  in. 
There  hasn't  been  an  American  taken  in  for  a  couple 
of  years.  The  thing  is  that  it  would  dazzle  my 
father,  old  blunderbuss !  as  ten  years  of  honest  paint- 
ing couldn't  do.  You  see,  Burroughs,  a  man  is  his 
own  best  critic.  I  know  that  the  portrait  is  the  best 
thing  I  have  ever  done  and  I  am  going  to  finish  it  as 
I  want  to,  and  give  the  girl  her  cakes  and  her  tea 
through  to  the  end  if  I  have  to  eat  palette-scrapings 
to  do  it." 

"  By  Jove,  I'm  sorry.  Hang  it,  man,  why  didn't 
you  tell  me?  " 

"  Because  telling  is  harder  for  me  than  starving ! 
To  starve  in  silence  is  not  without  dignity."  Keating 
laughed,  getting  to  his  feet  and  looking  down  upon 
Burroughs.  "  I  have  had  time,  and  occasion,  to  think 
it  out  like  that."  He  walked  about  the  studio  ab- 
sently regarding  a  canvas  here  and  there  where  they 
stood  on  the  easel  or  along  the  wall,  pinching  and 
fingering  bits  of  fine  stuff,  and  coming  up  by  the 
lamp  to  stare  in  abstraction  at  the  red  Japanese 
shade. 

"  Did  you  finish  that  thing  you  had  going  of 
Clothilde  in  her  shawl?  "  Burroughs  asked,  putting 
his  hands  under  his  head  and  his  feet  on  the  fender. 

Keating  shook  his  head.     "  Not  yet.     It  is  put 


158  FAME-SEEKERS 

aside  for  the  moment.  So  is  the  girl,"  Keating  bent 
in  sudden  mirth.  "  You  should  have  seen  Nathalie 
Corson  stick  knives  into  that  canvas,  the  girl  too ! 
Women  are  funny!  You  can  read  'em!  I  told 
Clo'  that  I  had  a  big  order  and  that  she  must 
let  me  be  for  a  week  or  two.  She  came  in  whimper- 
ing last  night  and  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  turn  her  out 
in  the  cold.  She's  a  regular  little  fury.  I'm  afraid 
to  leave  her  alone  in  the  room  with  the  portrait. 
Women  are  queer.  I  don't  know  a  bit  where 
that  mite  of  two  nations  picks  up  her  living.  Cer- 
tainly she  gets  precious  little  from  me.  She  knows 
how  little  I  have  to  give.  But  when  a  woman  takes 
it  into  her  head  to  care  about  a  man,  the  things  she 
will  put  up  with  and  the  things  she'll  make  out  of 
nothing  are  a  miracle!  She,"  he  hesitated,  leaning 
against  the  wall  and  surrounding  himself  with  smoke, 
"  is  the  sort  of  girl  I  ought  to  marry." 

"  You  ought  not  to  marry  at  all,"  said  Burroughs 
firmly,  watching  Keating  where  he  stood. 

"  That's  the  whole  of  the  truth,"  agreed  Keating, 
"  but  I'm  doomed ;  I  shan't  be  able  to  help  myself. 
I'll  marry  from  sheer  weakness.  It  is  easier  to  get 
married  than  not  to  get  married." 

"  I'm  not  an  expert,"  Burroughs  smiled  quietly, 
"  but  what  of  that  canvas  ?  I  thought  it  pretty 
good." 

"  It's    good,    it's    all-fired    good,"    said    Keating. 


WHILE  A  CITY  SLEEPS  159 

"  But  I've  been  afraid  the  shawl  might  sing  out  in  the 
memory  of  Miss  Garth!  I  don't  mind  owning  that 
there  are  times  when  I'm  afraid  of  Miss  Garth. 
She's  as  pretty  as  a  blue-bell,  but  she's  got  the  tem- 
per of  a  cat.  I'm  not  as  afraid  of  her  temper,  how- 
ever, as  I  am  of  her  high-minded  attitude  towards 
girls  in  woolen  shawls.  I  haven't  forgotten !  " 

Burroughs  shifted  in  his  chair  but  said  nothing. 

"  If  I  had  the  sand  I'd  send  'em  both  in,"  Keating 
laughed.  "  They'd  show  one  another  off,  those  two 
canvases,  and  make  me  feel  as  set  up  as  a  Sultan. 
But  I  don't  think  it  would  pay.  I'd  lose  both  girls ! 
Clo'  is  a  nice  little  thing,  and  sweet  when  the  sun 
shines  and  when  she  isn't  jealous.  She  is  used  to  the 
cold  and  to  low  rations,  and  she  does  my  mending, 
darning  and  washing  with  a  conscience  which 
might  be  put  to  a  better  use.  She  has  work  now.  I 
gave  her  the  idea  of  washing  dishes  in  a  restaurant 
for  her  food.  I  may  have  to  take  the  place  and  di- 
vide the  food  with  her !  " 

Burroughs  turned  his  eyes  upon  Keating  and  took 
him  in  keenly.  He  wondered  what  it  was  about  him 
that  drew  women  of  all  classes  to  him;  a  something 
which  made  the  girl  in  the  old  shawl  come  "  whimper- 
ing," which  turned  Louisa  Garth  into  a  "  cat,"  which 
got  Keating  credit  without  the  asking,  from  a  Mary, 
the  madonna  of  the  Ledger. 

"  Keating,"  and  Burroughs  sat  up  and  turned  so 


160  FAME-SEEKERS 

he  could  see  the  man  squarely,  "  do  you  mind  telling 
me  if  there  is  anything  between  you  and  Miss 
Garth?  " 

Keating  laughed,  but  the  laugh  sank  as  he  realised 
the  scene  with  Louisa  of  the  afternoon  just  gone  by. 
"  Who  am  I  that  there  should  be  anything  between 
us  ?  "  he  asked  brusquely. 

Burroughs  put  out  his  hand  and  straightened  a 
tack  in  a  print  on  the  wall.  "  Does  she  perfectly 
understand  you,  you  are  sure,  Keating?  " 

"  What  are  you  driving  at  ?  "  and  Keating  came 
near  Burroughs,  staring  down  upon  him  as  if  he 
were  fascinated. 

"  By  Jove,  Keating,  you  shouldn't  play  with  a 
woman  like  that !  "  Burroughs  got  out  of  his  chair 
and  paced  up  and  down  the  polished  floor.  "  Be- 
sides, think,  man ;  be  practical  as  well  as  —  square. 
What  a  life  she  might  give  to  you!  " 

"  I  haven't  played  with  her ! "  said  Keating  stub- 
bornly. "  I  couldn't  afford  to  play  with  her.  She 
has  played  with  me,  though,  till  there  is  not  much 
left  of  me." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  can't  afford  '?  " 

"  What  have  I  just  been  telling  you  ?  Haven't  you 
just  given  me  a  hundred  francs?  She,"  he  laughed 
roughly,  "  pays  seven  times  that  for  an  cvery-day, 
rag-tag  dress ! " 

"  But,  man  alive,  Louisa  Garth  is  above  that  point 
of  view.  Do  you  imagine  that  she  would  look  upon 


WHILE  A  CITY  SLEEPS  161 

her  money,  or  your  lack  of  it,  as  any  barrier  between 
you  if  she  cared  for  you?  She  knows  your  circum- 
stances :  she  is  neither  blind  nor  stupid." 

"  She  hasn't  the  faintest  idea  of  what  my  circum- 
stances are,"  declared  Keating.  "  She  could  not 
have.  If  she  knew  that  I  have  lived  on  thirty  dollars 
a  month  —  she  wouldn't  believe  it.  I'll  have  to  live 
on  less  than  that  for  some  time  to  come,"  he  sighed. 
Keating  hung  his  head  in  the  night,  for  a  new  con- 
fusion was  upon  him,  a  new  realisation  of  Burroughs' 
life  apart  from  his,  of  Burroughs'  attitude  towards 
the  women  of  his  own  world.  Class,  always  class! 
After  all,  why  should  he  tell  this  man,  or  any  other 
man,  whether  he  loved  her  or  not?  Why  must  they 
all  come  meddling  with  his  affairs?  His  life  was 
hard  enough  without  that.  He  was,  as  much  as  Bur- 
roughs, his  own  master.  "  You  all  hounded  me  till 
you  trapped  me,"  he  broke  out  sullenly.  "  No  doubt 
she  likes  me;  women  generally  do."  He  spoke 
slowly,  the  words  forcing  themselves  out  more  than 
half  against  his  will,  but  he  could  not  resist  the  de- 
fence of  his  silly  boast.  His  face  burnt  till  it  hurt 
him  in  the  shadowy  room.  "  Life  runs  away  with  a 
man  when  a  woman  as  beautiful  as  she  is  takes  him  up. 
But  as  for  asking  her  to  marry  me  —  that  would  be 
beyond  even  me !  "  The  whole  air  seemed  shaken  and 
demoralised,  for  the  borrowing  had  unmanned  Keat- 
ing, and  he'd  spoken  before  he  had  had  time  to  find 
himself  again. 


162  FAME  SEEKERS 

Burroughs  considered  him  a  moment,  then  he  paced 
the  floor  again,  speaking  in  a  held-in  voice.  "  My 
dear  Keating,  you  must  be  careful.  The  same  sort 
of  treatment  does  not  do  with  all  sorts  of  women. 
You  must  not  let  yourself  forget  that  in  Miss  Garth's 
way  of  life  certain  things  mean  but  one  thing,  and  a 
man  who  knows  you  both  as  well  as  I  do,  who  sees 
you  often,  understands  you  both,  and  —  cares  very 
much,  Keating  —  can  read  at  a  glance  that  you,  to 
say  the  least,  disturb  one  another." 

"  I  have  always  said  that  the  ways  of  our  lives  are 
different,"  said  Keating  stubbornly.  "  I  have  told 
her  so  more  than  once." 

Burroughs  stopped  in  his  pacing,  frowning,  turn- 
ing Keating's  words  over  in  his  mind.  He  had  be- 
lieved that  Louisa  had  seen  Keating  and  talked  with 
him  before  the  posing  began.  "  You  have  told  her 
so  ?  "  he  echoed.  "  Look  here,  Keating,  Miss  Garth 
isn't  a  village  girl  who  has  come  abroad  merely  to 
continue  a  series  of  pastorals  in  new  fields.  I  don't 
know  what  has  happened  between  you,  nor  do  I  want 
to  know.  I  never  told  a  more  absolute  truth  than 
that ;  take  my  word  for  it.  But,  it  is  not  too  fine, 
you  know  —  the  two  of  them  like  that,  in  and  out 
of  your  studio  and  your  mind.  With  the  other  girl 
and  her  everlasting  shawl  no  doubt  you  know  your 
own  way,  but  with  Miss  Garth  you  are  being  rather 
a  brute.  I  have  never,"  he  added,  with  a  saving 
swerve  to  generalities,  "  had  much  sympathy  with  the 


WHILE  A  CITY  SLEEPS  163 

man  who  thinks  that  any  independent  girl  is  fair 
game." 

Keating  looked  back  at  Burroughs  in  amazement. 
"  So !  "  he  laughed  roughly. 

Burroughs  stopped  walking  suddenly  and  dropped 
into  his  chair  by  the  stove.  He  put  back  his  head 
and  smoked  in  silence. 

"  Keating,"  he  said,  and  quietly,  "  this  is  degrad- 
ing, all  of  this  talk.  I  hate  it,  and  I  suppose  that 
you  do  too.  It  is  much  too  intimate  to  be  endurable. 
But  we  have  got  into  deep  water  and  we  must  get  out 
of  it  with  what  dignity  we  can.  I  am  even  going  to 
add  a  little  to  the  confessing.  This  is  the  way  the 
situation  looks  to  me.  As  for  you;  I've  been  down 
at  their  studio  every  day  the  winter  through,  I  saw 
you  through  all  that  silly  affair  on  the  boat,  and  I 
know  perfectly  well  that  you  have  played  havoc  with 
her  peace  of  mind.  As  for  me ;  I  want  to  marry  Miss 
Garth,  and  now  that  I  know  your  mind,  I  shall,  from 
to-night  on,  take  advantage  of  every  opportunity 
that  comes  my  way.  It's  not  exactly  pleasant,  all 
this  open-house  talk,  but  it  puts  us  straight.  Your 
frankness  deserves  mine." 

Keating  was  stunned.  He  had  not  dreamed  of  in- 
volving himself  in  anything  really  serious ;  he'd  known 
any  number  of  girls  who'd  have  —  cared,  maybe,  but 
treated  it  as  a  lark.  What  was  all  this  sudden  fuss 
about?  Then,  in  the  big  dark  room  he  saw,  as  he'd 
never  seen  in  any  daylight,  that  she  was  not  of  his 


164  FAME-SEEKERS 

world,  and  that,  were  she  to  marry  him  even,  were 
she  to  come  and  beg  him  to  take  her,  she  could  never 
belong  to  him.  The  man  always  goes  into  dark- 
ness to  get  his  revelations.  "  I  couldn't  marry  a  girl 
with  all  that  money,  no  matter  who  cared,"  he  mut- 
tered. 

"  If  you  care  for  her  and  she  cares  for  you,  then 
that  is  not  only  stupid,  but  crueL  The  absurdity  of 
refusing  to  make  a  woman  happy  when  she  has  money 
enough  for  herself  and  half  a  dozen  men  like  you! 
Take  care,  Keating,  or  you'll  bring  all  her  pride 
down  on  your  head,"  he  smiled.  "  She'll  understand 
you  sooner  or  later,  better  than  you'll  ever  allow 
yourself  to  understand  her." 

"  I'd  make  her  life  a  daily  hell ! "  said  Keating. 
"  I  guess,"  he  laughed,  "  I  must  have  been  cut  out  to 
make  'em  that." 

"  Then  there  is  nothing  more  to  say  about  it  now," 
said  Burroughs. 

Keating  was  standing  against  the  wall  near  the 
stove.  He  turned  his  head  slowly  and  took  Bur- 
roughs in.  The  man's  profile  was  fine;  the  long 
nose,  the  well-trimmed  beard,  the  forehead  only 
slightly  lined,  the  well-formed  head,  and  it  all  re- 
minded him  of  Louisa  Garth.  Not  because  there  was 
any  actual  resemblance,  but  for  that  other  subtle 
something,  that  indelible  mark  of  manner  and  habit. 
His  eyes  wandered  over  Burroughs'  clothes  and  rested 
upon  his  hand  where  it  lay  upon  the  arm  of  the  chair. 


WHILE  A  CITY  SLEEPS  165 

With  a  sullen  smile  he  raised  his  own  hand  and 
clenched  it  till  the  cords  and  muscles  were  strained. 
Then  he  relaxed  painfully  and  spread  both  his  hands 
to  the  warmth  of  the  stove.  He  was  horribly  tired, 
and  always  being  driven,  driven,  from  one  effort  to 
another.  He  longed  to  escape  from  it.  Where  did  he 
rightly  belong?  Where  would  they  tell  him,  if  they 
dared,  that  they  thought  he  ought  to  go?  Back  to 
his  prairies,  no  doubt,  with  their  endless  skies,  and 
stillness,  and  —  emptiness.  No,  he'd  not  go !  "  The 
truth  is,"  he  said  slowly,  and  there  was  something  of 
the  boy  who  has  been  punished  about  him  which 
caught  at  Burroughs'  sympathy,  "  that  I  do  not, 
that  I  never  did,  want  to  marry  her.  I  resign !  "  his 
voice  gave  a  little  and  his  fingers  nervously  straight- 
ened the  tack  that  Burroughs  had  already  straight- 
ened. "  But,  Burroughs,"  he  said  forcibly,  "  for 
God's  sake  let  me  be  till  the  portrait  is  finished !  I 
have  staked  everything  on  that  and  I  want  to  see  it 
through." 

"  Let  you  be !  "  echoed  Burroughs.  "  My  dear 
Keating,  no  one  wants  you  to  succeed  with  that  por- 
trait more  than  I  do.  Do  you  take  me  for  a  man  of 
ice?  I  know  what  it  means  to  you.  Paint  her ;  paint 
her  as  long  as  she  lives !  That  is  a  question  only  of 
*  Are  you  able  to  paint  her  ?  ' 

Keating  seemed  to  break  and  his  head  sunk  between 
his  shoulders.  "  Painting  is  hard  work  for  a  man 
like  me.  I  want  so  much  that  I  do  not  quite  under- 


166  FAME-SEEKERS 

stand.  I  have  a  sense  of  what  beauty  in  life  and  in 
work  means,  but  I  wasn't  born  into  it.  I'm  clumsy ! 
I  can't  even  put  the  wish  into  the  best  words,  though 
it  is  the  very  best  of  me.  How  I  want  it !  I  blunder 
and  blunder  every  time  I  raise  my  hands.  They  are 
so  horribly  heavy.  I  hurt  everything  I  want  to  be 
kind  to,  and  I  hurt  myself  the  most  of  all.  Well," 
he  gave  a  great  sigh,  "  one  of  these  days,  after  a 
little  more  trying,  I'll  just  clear  out!  I'll  just  go 
away  outside  where  I  belong  and  fall  over  —  off  the 
edge  of  things !  " 

"  Sit  down,  man ! "  said  Burroughs  impulsively. 
He  went  to  the  corner  and  got  a  bottle  of  whiskey 
and  a  syphon  from  a  shelf  under  the  window.  He 
drew  up  a  small  table  between  their  two  chairs. 
"  Take  off  your  overcoat,  Keating,  and  make  a  night 
of  it.  I  should  have  asked  you  sooner.  There  are 
plenty  of  blankets  and  cushions.  You  may  have  the 
couch  and  the  studio  to  yourself." 

Mechanically  Keating  gave  in  to  the  comfortable 
prospect.  Resistance  seemed  so  futile.  He  threw  off 
his  coat  and  sank  into  the  low  chair,  and  sipped 
gratefully  at  the  tingling  drink. 

"  I  don't  want  anything  to  come  between  us,  Bur- 
roughs," he  said  after  a  while,  resting  his  head  on 
the  back  of  his  chair  and  closing  his  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment. "  I'd  rather  see  you  married  to  every  girl 
I  have  ever  loved !  "  He  laughed.  "  You  can't  un- 
derstand, I  suppose,  how  you  are  just  about  all  I  have 


WHILE  A  CITY  SLEEPS  167 

that  I  know  how  to  count  on.  I'm  always  putting  it 
on,  and  posing,  with  the  dabblers  I  meet  about  here, 
and  makin'  a  lot  of  noise  whistling  in  the  dark.  But 
I  hate  it,  and  I  hate  myself  for  it.  You  see,  you 
know  all  about  me  from  manger  to  studio  and  it's 
a  comfort  to  know  that  I'm  not  going  to  take  your 
breath  away  with  a  slump,  or  clumsiness.  You 
don't  stare  at  me  as  if  I  were  some  sort  of  should-be- 
extinct  animal.  And  I  believe  you  can  see,  if  you'll 
think  about  it,  what  a  temptation  a  girl  like  that 
would  be  to  a  man  like  me.  She  fools  me  and  flatters 
me  with  her  —  tact,  is  it?  till  I  forget  what  a  dolt  I 
am.  I  did  try  to  fight  you  all  off!  "  He  sat  up  and 
bent  eagerly  towards  Burroughs.  "  You  know  that 
I  tried,  Burroughs.  You  can't  deny  that !  " 

There  was  a  desolation  back  of  Keating's  eager 
voice  which  thrilled  across  Burroughs'  nerves  and  set 
him  to  pacing  the  floor  again.  He  pitied  Keating, 
and  he  hated  pitying  him  as  he  would  have  hated  be- 
ing pitied.  He  came  to  the  stove-corner  again  and 
stood  looking  abstractedly  down  upon  the  man. 

"  What  I  really  believe,  Keating,  is  that  she  is  not 
for  any  of  us.  I  want  to  marry  her  and  I  shall  do 
my  best;  but  that  is  what  I  honestly  believe.  Cer- 
tainly I  have  nothing  to  base  any  hope  upon.  She 
simply  accepts  me  about  the  place  because  I  do  not 
disturb  her,  or  get  in  her  way.  But  that  is  not  just 
what  I  mean.  It  doesn't  matter  now,  at  least."  The 
two  men  regarded  one  another.  "  Let's  agree  that 


168  FAME-SEEKERS 

we  believe  that,  and  drop  the  subject,  except  when  it 
is  natural  to  speak  of  her.  We  don't  want  to  make 
a  ghost  of  her  to  stand  between  us."  Burroughs 
smiled.  "  I  detest  talking  a  woman  over.  She's 
actually  a  sad  mite,  Keating.  Don't  you  see  it? 
She  got  tired  of  her  hot-house  home  and  ran  away, 
and  we  must  not  take  advantage  of  her.  Why,  my 
dear  fellow,  from  the  other  way  around,  she  is  quite 
as  ignorant  of  the  world,  and  as  awkward,  as  you 
are,  only  one  doesn't  mind  because  she  is  a  woman 
and  beautiful,  because  she  is  grace  itself.  But  she's 
a  lost  child,  and  I  suppose  about  the  best  thing  a 
decent  man  can  do  is  to  show  her  the  way  back 
home!  I  know  so  well  what  her  life  has  been.  I 
came  out  of  the  same  sort  of  hot-house.  It  is  no 
great  harm  for  a  man  to  get  lost  now  and  then,  to 
run  away  from  one  thing  after  another,  but  it  is 
death  to  a  woman,  and  disillusionment  to  a  girl. 
Now,  Keating,  we  understand  one  another  better. 
Let's  drop  the  subject.  What  are  you  doing  about 
a  frame  for  your  portrait  ?  " 

For  a  moment  Keating  did  not  answer,  had  lost 
himself,  it  seemed,  in  reverie  and  smoke.  "  I  sup- 
pose," he  said  curiously,  "  that  money  does  actually 
make  it  hard  for  brains.  I  can't  quite  get  that 
through  my  noddle!  As  for  the  frame,"  he  got  up 
and  shook  himself,  running  his  hand  through  his 
longish  rough  hair,  "  it's  ordered.  It  will  cost  me 
sixty  francs.  That  leaves  forty  francs  for  tea,  and 


WHILE  A  CITY  SLEEPS  169 

coal,  and  paint.  I  must  pay  Mary  a  little,  too, — 
whatever  there  is  left.  In  another  week  the  thing 
will  be  done,  in  less  time,"  he  laughed  shortly  at 
some  thought,  "  if  I  work  as  fast  as  I  can.  Then, 
I'll  obliterate  myself  till  I  know  what  the  picture  has 
done  for  me.  I  must  get  some  work,  real  work,  to 
do  at  once.  I  thought,  Burroughs,  that  if  I  should 
find  something  to  do,  and  wanted  to  disappear  for  a 
while,  that  you'd  probably  not  mind  looking  after 
the  sending-in  day  for  me?  If  I  should  go  to  the 
country,  or  something  of  that  sort,  I  might  send  the 
canvas  over  here  and  Lefebvre  could  get  it  when  he 
calls  for  your  things?  I  am  trying  to  rent  my 
studio  for  the  spring  and  summer  terms.  Is  it  diffi- 
cult to  rent  a  furnished  place  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  this  quarter,  for  this  time  of  the  year, 
and  for  what  it  is  worth,"  said  Burroughs  frankly 
and  fully. 

Keating  got  up  and  wandered  about  the  studio 
restlessly.  His  foot  slipped  on  a  newspaper  and  it 
skidded  across  the  polished  floor  before  him.  He 
followed  it  absently,  stooped  and  picked  it  up,  then 
mechanically  he  opened  it  to  the  page  of  advertise- 
ments. He  moved  near  to  the  lamp  and  scanned  the 
column  of  "  Wanted  "  with  cynicism  scarcely  veiling 
his  interest. 

"  Here's  somebody  who  wants  an  English-speaking 
man-servant,"  he  laughed.  "  By  George !  He  says 
he's  a  painter,  and  that  the  man  would  be  principally 


170  FAME-SEEKERS 

occupied  in  the  studio.  I  could  do  that  sort  of  thing 
like  rolling  off  a  log!  Binnington  is  the  name. 
Sounds  English,  doesn't  it?" 

"That's  odd,"  commented  Burroughs.  "What's 
the  address  ?  " 

Keating  read  the  address  aloud,  then  glanced  at 
Burroughs  curiously. 

"Why  odd?" 

Burroughs  stirred  the  fire,  smiling  comfortably. 
The  air  of  the  place  seemed  to  have  cleared  with 
the  storm  of  frankness.  "  Binnington's  an  American 
whom,  I  heard  only  to-day,  you  may  have  reason  to 
fear !  He's  rich,  lives  on  the  other  side  of  town,  cuts 
out  the  '  Club '  and  the  life  over  here  in  the  quarter, 
and  goes  in  for  wire-pulling.  My  dear  man,  they 
say  that  he's  made  up  his  mind,  and  his  wires,  to  be 
elected  this  year  to  the  Beaux  Arts.  He's  your  ri- 
val, for  the  two  of  you  can  scarcely  make  it  in  one 
and  the  same  year.  They're  very  good  to  the  Ameri- 
cans over  here,  but  not  often  as  good  as  all  that ! " 

"  That's  —  funny,  isn't  it  ?  "  and  Keating  stared 
before  him  with  the  paper  hanging  limp  in  his  hand. 

"  It's  too  funny,"  said  Burroughs  grimly.  "  It 
savours  of  the  practical  joke.  But,"  he  sighed,  "  it's 
just  Paris,  after  all! " 

Keating  folded  the  paper  and  came  back  to  his 
chair.  They  had  another  drink  and  talked  for  a 
while  of  Paris  and  its  high  and  by-ways,  then  Bur- 
roughs lighted  his  candle  to  go  up  to  bed.  He 


WHILE  A  CITY  SLEEPS  171 

piled  cushions  and  covers  on  the  couch  for  Keating 
to  arrange  as  he  liked  best. 

"  I  shall  miss  my  little  Empire  crib,"  Keating 
laughed,  as  he  spread  the  blankets  over  the  couch. 
Burroughs  put  a  candle  near  the  couch,  and  with  a 
*'  Good-night,"  climbed  up  to  his  balcony  room. 

Burroughs  slept  badly,  dreaming  and  tossing,  wor- 
ried vaguely  by  shadow-like  troubles.  At  last  he 
opened  his  eyes  and  gave  over  trying  to  sleep, 
amused  himself  with  watching  the  dawn  creeping  in 
among  the  wooden  beams.  The  stars  were  still  shin- 
ing and  he  looked  on  through  the  sky-light  at  the 
coming  of  the  day.  All  at  once  he  heard  Keating 
groan,  heard  him  throw  back  the  covers  and  move 
softly  across  the  studio.  Then  there  was  a  rustling 
of  paper.  He  heard  him  move  back  to  the  couch, 
heard  the  springs  give.  Then  there  was  the  scratch- 
ing of  a  match,  and  the  candle-light  did  its  best  to 
climb  up  to  the  edge  of  the  daylight.  Without 
asking  himself  why,  Burroughs  crept  softly  out  of 
bed  and  peered  down  into  the  studio  through  the 
balcony-rail. 

Keating  was  sitting,  half-dressed  and  in  his  stock- 
ing-feet, on  the  edge  of  the  couch.  The  candle  stood 
on  a  chair  drawn  close  beside  him.  Over  his  knees 
was  spread  a  map  of  Paris,  the  sort  of  small  folding 
map  the  stranger  carries  in  his  pocket.  In  his  hand 
he  held  the  newspaper  and  he  was  looking  from  the 
address  in  the  "  Wanted  "  column  to  the  map  on  his 


172  FAME-SEEKERS 

knees,  tracing  slowly  and  carefully  with  his  finger, 
straining  his  eyes  over  the  fine  print  in  the  uneven 
light. 

Burroughs  felt  guilty,  as  if  he'd  stooped  to  read 
another  man's  letter.  But  he  stood  still,  staring 
down,  fascinated.  The  half-light  obliterated  all  but 
the  essentials  and  the  big  forms,  and  it  was  as  if  he 
looked  upon  a  cartoon  of  Keating  and  his  trouble. 
The  heavy,  bent  head,  the  big-boned,  badly-nourished 
frame,  the  curious  affiliation  of  awkwardness  and 
deftness  in  the  movement  of  his  hands,  the  tragedy, 
the  paradox  of  a  man  bent  on  living  a  life  into  which 
he'd  not  been  born.  Burroughs'  eyes  fixed  on  the 
coarse,  grey  woollen  socks  that  made  Keating's  feet 
look  enormous.  The  socks  seemed  to  tell  the  whole, 
fine,  hard  story!  Chilled  through,  Burroughs  crept 
back  to  bed.  Poverty  and  Class,  the  enemies  of  the 
simple  man  of  gifts !  Burroughs  slept  into  the  broad 
daylight  and  when  he  wakened  suddenly  and  jumped 
out  of  bed  he  looked  down  into  an  empty  studio. 
The  couch  where  Keating  had  slept  was  in  order, 
the  chairs  in  place  and  a  bright  fire  burning  in  the 
stove. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

CONFUSION 

LOUISA  was  a  half-hour  late.  Keating  had  every- 
thing ready  for  work,  and  the  tea  things  all  laid 
ready,  that  none  of  the  precious  daylight  need  be 
wasted  in  ceremony.  All  day  he  had  brooded  over 
his  portrait  and  his  problems,  and  his  nerves  were 
getting  the  upper  hand.  He  was  impatient  now  to 
be  through  with  the  thing,  free  of  it  and  all  that  it 
stood  for.  But  his  long  talk  with  Burroughs  had, 
after  all,  found  him  his  own  ground  again.  Put- 
ting his  situation  into  words'  had  stirred  all  the 
dregs,  but  had  let  him  see  to  the  bottom.  And  his 
egotism,  talent's  faithful  crutch,  had  helped  him 
across  the  hours,  till  he  was  able  to  believe  once 
more  that  that  which  he  might  not  have  he  did  not 
want.  At  least,  he'd  found  what  comfort  there 
might  be  in  a  look  beyond  his  moment.  Louisa  be- 
ing late,  he  went  to  work  on  the  background,  not 
daring  to  think  that  she  might  fail  him.  Suddenly 
there  came  a  hurrying  step  up  to  his  door,  and, 
after  a  rapid  tap-tap,  Nathalie  Corson  burst  into  the 
place.  She  was  pallid  and  out  of  breath,  and  she 
looked  as  if  ghosts  had  chased  her  up  the  stairway. 

173 


FAME-SEEKERS 

"  Keating !  "  she  gasped,  "  I've  come  to  tell  you 
that  Louisa  can't  come.  She's  had  dreadful  news 
from  America ! " 

Keating  collapsed  with  so  frankly  dismayed  a 
first-thought  for  his  canvas  that  Nathalie  was  forced 
into  a  shocked  laugh. 

"  I'm  damned,"  he  whispered.  "  What  has  hap- 
pened now  ?  " 

"  It's  Louisa's  sister,  Mrs.  Gleason.  She's  been 
thrown  from  her  horse !  " 

"  Killed?  " 

"  No,  but  I  guess  it's  pretty  bad.  They  have 
cabled  Louisa  to  wait  for  news.  She  was  a  fine 
horse-woman,  and,  I  suppose,  too  venturesome.  It 
happened  in  Virginia,  where  they  were  spending  a 
month  with  friends.  Mrs.  Gleason  is  much  older 
than  Louisa,  and  had  finished  school  and  was  mar- 
ried when  Louisa  and  I  began.  I  scarcely  knew  her 
at  all.  It  has  been  simply  awful,  Keating.  They 
sent  the  cable  to  me,  and  I  had  to  tell  her.  I  feel 
as  if  I'd  been  thrown,  too!  Mrs.  Gleason  is  the 
only  near  relative  Louisa  has  —  at  least,  the  only 
one  she  seems  to  care  about." 

Keating  crossed  the  room  and  sat  on  a  straight 
chair  against  the  wall  near  his  bedroom  door.  He 
wanted  room  to  think  in  —  wanted  space  in  which 
to  get  a  focus  upon  this  new  calamity. 

Nathalie's  eyes  followed  him,  searched  over  him, 
and  finally  surrounded  him  in  a  concern  that  almost 


CONFUSION  175 

forgot  about  Louisa.  It  was  as  if  she  had  in- 
stantly shut  Louisa's  troublesome  spirit  out  and  had 
locked  the  door.  Nathalie  saw  the  change  in  Keat- 
ing, sitting  there  against  the  wall,  shocked,  and  all 
the  early-afternoon  light  full  upon  him.  "  Of 
course,  this  means  a  lot  to  you,  Keating.  You've 
got  to  finish  that  portrait." 

Keating  did  not  answer.  There  seemed  nothing 
to  say. 

Nathalie  went  to  him  and  leaned  against  the  wall 
beside  him,  and  together  they  looked  at  the  canvas. 

"  It's  perfectly  beautiful,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  I  know  it,"  agreed  Keating. 

"  And  I  know  that  you  know  it,"  Nathalie  smiled. 
"  That's  something,  isn't  it?  " 

"  It's  about  all,"  said  Keating. 

Sympathy  and  appreciation,  Nathalie's  own  par- 
ticular sun  and  moon,  had  brought  the  glow  back 
to  her  face.  "  Keating,"  she  spoke  simply,  "  are 
you  hard  up?  " 

"  Always,"  he  told  her.  And  Louisa,  for  all  her 
trouble,  had  no  place  at  all  for  the  moment  in  their 
thoughts.  Artists  are  all  as  selfish  as  children,  and 
often  as  childish  as  they  are  selfish. 

"  Not  more  just  now  than  always?"  Nathalie 
was  firmly  insistent. 

"  And  what  if  I  am  ?  "  Keating  asked  her. 

"  Simply,  that  I  am  not"  she  said,  "  and  I  hope 
you  won't  forget  it."  She  turned  away  from  him 


170  FAME-SEEKERS 

and  went  to  the  canvas,  looking  closely  into  the 
painting.  "  Do  you  know,"  she  said  impersonally, 
"  I'm  not  sure  that  I  like  smiling  portraits.  It's 
rather  —  frightening ;  a  face  always  smiling,  smil- 
ing! Keating,"  she  wheeled  about,  direct  again, 
and  earnest,  "  you  have  no  more  right  to  starve  a 
work  of  art  than  you  have  to  starve  a  baby.  Re- 
member that ! " 

Keating  paled,  but  his  mouth  set.  He  went  to 
the  window  and  stood  with  his  arms  on  the  ledge, 
looking  out  at  the  March  sky. 

Nathalie  sighed  and  studied  his  back,  then  she 
looked  out  over  his  shoulder.  "  Everything  seems 
to  happen  at  once  over  here,  doesn't  it?  That 
seems  to  be  what  the  month  of  March  is  for!  It's 
certainly  the  chosen  month  of  the  *  survival  of  the 
fittest,'  "  she  smiled.  "  No  doubt  the  sky  and  the 
trees  are  as  troubled  as  we  are;  if  that's  a  consola- 
tion! Of  course,  I'm  certain  that  Louisa  will  buy 
the  canvas  from  the  Salon,  as  you  have  refused  to 
treat  it  as  an  order.  It  is  all  that  she  can  do."  She 
spoke  carefully,  and  with  a  little  manner  of  prac- 
ticality. "  That'll  help  out." 

Keating  turned  about  and  gave  her  a  look. 
"Help  out?" 

"  What  are  you  driving  at  ? "  Nathalie  asked 
sharply. 

Keating  stiffened  and  looked  savage.  "  Do  you 
think  I'd  touch  her  money?  " 


CONFUSION  177 

Nathalie  stared  at  him,  fascinated.  Her  colour 
slipped  back  and  left  her  as  pale  as  when  she  had 
come  in.  "I  —  didn't  know,"  she  said  unevenly. 

"  Didn't  know  what?  "  Keating  scowled.  "  I  only 
mean  that  I  feel  like  that  about  it.  I  can't  take 
money  from  a  woman  —  from  her  —  when  I  need  it ! 
Can't  you  understand?  " 

"  Why  not  treat  it  like  an  order,  like  any  other 
order?  " 

"  Because  it  isn't  like  that,  and  you  know  that  it 
isn't." 

"  I  don't  at  all,  know  what  I  know,  Keating," 
Nathalie  smiled  faintly.  "  Have  you  —  fallen  in 
love  with  Louisa?"  She  did  her  best  to  speak 
lightly. 

"  No !  "  Keating  thundered  it  at  her. 

Nathalie  smiled  and  took  him  in.  "  You  are  a 
baby,  Keating.  Do  you  imagine  that  you  can  lie  to 
me?  The  portrait  was  to  have  been  a  present  to 
me,  to  hang  in  my  studio,  to  have  after  Louisa  has 
gone.  Do  you  —  hate  me,  too?"  She  shot  him  a 
glance,  amusement  and  patience  mixed. 

"  You  shall  have  it  after  I've  exhibited  it,"  said 
Keating.  "  I'll  give  it  to  you.  I  shan't  have  room 
for  it  here." 

Nathalie  imitated  his  self-supporting  pose  of 
lightly  folded  arms.  "  I  shall  like  it,  even  better, 
that  way,"  she  said.  "  When  is  sending-in  day  for 
the  New  Salon?  " 


178  FAME-SEEKERS 

"  I've  another  week,  but  it  must  dry,  and  I  want 
to  look  it  over." 

Nathalie  stood  a  moment,  considering  the  tea- 
table.  Absently  she  took  a  cake  off  the  plate  and 
ate  it,  Keating  watching  her  and  wondering  cynically 
if  she'd  eat  them  all.  The  cake  was  stale,  and  she 
found  it  hard  to  eat  it.  Having  begun,  she  gulped 
the  last  of  it.  She  buttoned  her  coat  absently, 
pulled  out  a  hat-pin,  considered  it,  and  put  it  in 
again,  woman-wise,  then  she  faced  Keating  with  reso- 
lution. 

"  No  matter  what  happens,  Louisa  has  got  to 
finish  posing  for  you.  There  are  no  two  ways  about 
it.  She  must  pose !  " 

Keating  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  her  as  if 
she  might  have  been  a  vision.  "  But,  will  she  ?  " 
Used  to  being  beaten,  he  had  already  resigned  him- 
self. "  Won't  she  go  home  if  her  sister  dies  ?  " 

"  Home  ?  Why,  Keating,  if  her  sister  dies,  Louisa 
will  be  as  homeless  as  you  are,  or  as  I  am." 

"  You  are  —  homeless  ?  " 

Nathalie  nodded.  "  I've  chosen  to  be,  and  got 
used  to  the  shock  of  being  allowed  to  be !  That's 
about  the  most  homeless  homelessness  there  is,  I 
guess.  Sometimes  I  mind.  I  used  to.  I  used  to 
have  times  when  I  fairly  broke  my  heart  with  wish- 
ing that  my  father  and  brothers  would  come  and 
handcuff  me  and  lock  me  up  in  a  room  full  of  com- 
fort and  —  girlish  things,  Keating.  But  I  never 


CONFUSION  179 

owned  up  to  it.  I'm  broken  in  now,  and  glad  that 
they  let  me  have  my  way.  At  least  —  I  —  oh,  yes, 
I  am  glad!  I  look  glad,  don't  I?  We  all  look 
glad,  we  fame-seekers !  " 

For  a  moment  the  two  stared  out  of  the  window, 
the  confession  of  disenchantment  having  filled  the 
room,  too  full  for  mere  words. 

"  We  seem  to  be  in  the  same  boat,"  said  Keating 
remotely. 

"  I  must  be  off,"  said  Nathalie  firmly,  avoiding 
his  eyes.  "  I  dare  not  miss  a  lesson  now.  I  have 
my  audition  three  weeks  from  to-day !  If  it  weren't 
for  my  lesson  I'd  go  down  to  the  studio  and  bring 
her  back  with  me  now.  But,  if  you  must  have  her 
this  afternoon,  I  can  send  her  a  '  bleu '  on  my  way." 

"  Does  she  care  much  for  her  sister? "  asked 
Keating. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Nathalie.  "It  isn't  my 
idea  of  caring  to  go  months  without  speaking  peo- 
ple's names  even,  then  having  hysterics  when  some- 
thing goes  wrong." 

Keating  looked  at  her  curiously.  "  Women  are 
hard  on  one  another,"  he  commented. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  we  are."  Nathalie  winced,  then 
squared  her  shoulders.  "  It's  all  too  easy  like  that, 
isn't  it?  It  seems  to  me  as  if  Louisa  is  so  —  ve- 
neered, that  feelings  can't  get  either  in  or  out.  Per- 
haps I'm  wrong.  I'm  afraid  this  winter  of  ours  to- 
gether has  scarcely  been  a  success  for  Louisa  and 


180  FAME-SEEKERS 

me.  She  irritates  me  so,  and  I'm  ashamed  of  things 
I've  said  to  her  lately.  I've  no  business  to  try  liv- 
ing with  anyone  when  I'm  working  as  hard  as  I  have 
been  forced  to  do  this  winter.  Work  like  that 
makes  a  woman  hard,  too,  and  gives  her  a  veneer 
from  the  other  way  around.  Louisa  may  care  very 
much,  and  it  may  be  that  I've  grown  so  far  away 
from  her  point  of  view  that  I  can't  judge  her  justly 
any  more.  Do  you  want  her  to-day?" 

Keating  looked  alarmed.  "  Maybe  to-morrow.  Is 
she  much  upset  ?  " 

Nathalie  was  standing  against  the  door  where 
Louisa  had  stood  yesterday  just  before  going  out. 
"  Her  eyes  are  red,"  she  smiled.  "  Men  can't  en- 
dure tears,  can  they?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  paint  'em ! "  declared  Keating. 

"  I'll  send  her  to-morrow,  then,  without  fail," 
said  Nathalie,  and  she  had  her  hand  on  the  door- 
knob when  Keating  called  her  back. 

"  Yes?  "  she  queried. 

Keating  hesitated,  then  he  spoke,  rapidly  for  him, 
"  When  I've  got  through  with  this  portrait,  I'm 
thinking  of  going  to  the  country  for  a  while,  maybe 
a  few  weeks.  I'd  like  to  rent  my  place  while  I'm 
gone,  of  course.  If  you  hear  of  anyone  looking  for 
a  studio,  will  you  tell  them  of  this  one?  n 

Nathalie  caught  the  strained  tone  of  his  voice 
and  wondered.  "  Of  course  I  will,"  she  told  him. 
"  I'd  like  it  myself,  to  finish  my  next  three  weeks 


CONFUSION  181 

of  pegging  up  in  peace.  But  that  would  hurt 
Louisa's  feelings." 

M  You  women  never  take  one  another  seriously," 
commented  Keating.  "  Imagine  a  man  having  his 
feelings  hurt  by  a  thing  like  that !  " 

"  That's  the  very  root  and  breath  of  our  trouble," 
Nathalie  sighed.  "  Instead  of  worrying  that  men 
are  not  fair  to  us  we've  got  to  learn  to  be  fair  to 
one  another.  I  must  run,  Keating,  or  I'll  be  late," 
and  with  a  strong  hand  grip  she  hurried  out. 

"  Sandy  kid,"  smiled  Keating  at  the  closed  door. 
Then  he  carefully  blanketed  the  red  coals  with  ashes, 
ate  the  remaining  tea-cakes  and  made  himself  strong 
tea. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    CABLE 

"  EVEEY  little  sound  startles  me,"  Louisa  sighed, 
and  she  pushed  her  hair  back  with  a  gesture  of  fa- 
tigue. "  Nathalie  promised  to  come  right  over  if 
a  cable  came  for  me.  I  suppose  I  might  as  well  have 
tea  here,  if  you  want  me  to.  It's  fearful,  this  un- 
certainty ! "  Louisa's  trouble  had  wiped  out  her 
consciousness  of  her  own  affairs  and  surroundings, 
and  she  counted  upon  the  utter  sympathy  and  in- 
terest of  all  those  about  her  just  as  she'd  have  done 
in  her  own  world  where  she'd  always  been  considered 
and  spoilt. 

The  portrait  was  practically  finished.  The  pos- 
ing had  come  to  an  end.  Louisa  had  folded  her 
dress  and  put  it  in  the  box  to  leave  ready  for  the 
maid  to  call  for.  There  was  that  curious  discom- 
fort that  always  comes  with  the  end  of  a  piece  of 
important  work,  and  Keating  felt  it  even  as  Louisa 
felt  her  trouble.  It  made  almost  necessary  some 
sort  of  ceremony,  a  prolonging,  for  manners'  sake, 
of  what  one  is  really  thankful  to  have  finished.  It 
was  as  if  one  said  to  oneself,  "  It's  good  to  have 
finished,  but  what  on  earth  will  there  be  to  do  to- 
morrow, this  big  thing  done?  " 

182 


THE  CABLE  183 

They  got  through  the  idle,  the  suspended  moment 
by  attention  to  all  sorts  of  small  things  that  came  in 
their  way,  and  to  Keating  at  least,  talk  about 
Louisa's  book-binding  was  one  of  these  small,  but 
momentarily  useful  things.  That  she  really  deeply 
cared  about  it,  he  never  for  a  moment  believed.  Why 
on  earth  should  she?  That  was  Keating's  way. 

Two  volumes  wrapped  in  tissue  paper  lay  upon 
the  corner  of  the  table.  Keating  lifted  them  and 
looked  at  them  again.  He  feared  a  word  about  the 
real  trouble  that  haunted  her  as  any  boy  fears 
ghosts.  "  You  know,"  he  said,  looking  around 
at  her  frankly,  "  I  can  see  that  they  are  awfully 
well  done,  but  I  don't  like  'em  a  bit!  You  see,  a 
book  is  a  book  to  me,  something  to  read,  to  carry 
around  in  your  pocket  and  hold  in  your  hands, 
sort  of  an  intimate  friend.  With  all  that  gold  stuff 
and  design  they  seem  sort  of  dressed  up.  I  couldn't 
read  one  of  'em  to  save  me!  I  couldn't  think  of 
anything  but  trying  not  to  spoil  it." 

"  I  don't  feel  that  way,"  Louisa  wondered  slowly. 

*'  No,  of  course,  you  don't,"  Keating  laughed. 
"  Because  you  don't  care,  never  even  think,  what 
things  cost.  You  see,"  he  added  simply,  "  that  pre- 
vents you  from  understanding  what  work  means, 
or  even  putting  any  great  value  on  it.  That's  why 
your  sort  of  people  always  waste  so  much  work,  and 
go  in  so  much  for  fiddle-faddles  and  things  that 
don't  matter."  Keating  was  not  arguing,  nor  was 


FAME-SEEKERS 

there  a  trace  of  complaint  in  his  voice  or  manner. 
He  was  merely  stating  what  he  believed  to  be  facts. 

Louisa  drank  her  tea,  then  took  her  two  little 
volumes  in  her  hands.  "  They  have  one  value  that 
I  do  understand,  though,"  she  smiled,  and  there  was 
a  wistfulness  about  the  smile  that  spoke  eloquently 
of  the  distress  at  the  back  of  her  mind.  "  I've 
learned  many,  many  things  —  outside  of  books  — 
while  doing  them ! "  She  stood  to  go,  wrapping 
the  soft  paper  about  them  with  slow  moving  fingers. 
Suddenly  she  laid  them  back  on  the  table  carefully, 
then  stiffened,  and  the  colour  slipped  away  from  her 
face.  Someone  was  coming  up  the  stairs ;  it  was  a 
woman's  step,  and  coming  slowly,  as  if  carrying 
something  heavy. 

Keating  stood  too,  and  they  watched  the  door, 
tense,  listening,  waiting  together. 

It  was  Nathalie,  and  the  heavy  thing  she  had  to 
carry  was  the  bit  of  blue,  typed  paper  —  the  cable. 
She  opened  it  and  gave  it  to  Louisa,  and  stood  with 
her  arm  across  her  shoulder  while  she  read  it. 

"  Grace  died  this  morning.  Wait  in  Paris  for  im- 
portant letter. 

"  WILLIAM  GLEASON." 

Louisa  slipped  down  upon  the  lounge  and  stared 
into  the  fire  with  her  hands  clasped  tight.  Mechan- 
ically, Keating  went  about  making  Nathalie  a  cup  of 
tea.  A  man  must  do  something.  Nathalie  drank 


THE  CABLE  185 

the  tea  as  mechanically.  Such  things  are  bridge- 
builders  over  bottomless  moments,  and  no  one  is 
able  to  build  them  out  of  talking.  No  one  who 
isn't  made  of  ice  or  manners.  Louisa  looked 
around  at  them,  and  her  lips  trembled.  "  I'll  get 
my  coat,  Nathalie,  and  we'll  go  home,  if  you  don't 
mind.  I  left  it  in  the  other  room."  She  walked 
across  the  big  floor,  the  two  watching  her  dumbly. 
She  put  on  her  coat  and  hat  and  looked  unseeingly 
into  the  uneven  little  mirror,  her  own  face  shocking 
her.  Then  for  the  first  time  her  eyes  fell  upon  the 
little  hairpin  that  Keating  had  stuck  into  the  wall- 
paper where  she'd  be  sure  to  see  it!  A  wonder 
slipped  over  her  mind  that  life  would  torture  her 
like  that  with  a  hideous,  mean,  small  thing. 
She  took  the  bit  of  rusty  bent  wire  in  her  fin- 
gers, and  she  went  to  the  window  and  opened  it, 
then  she  flung  it  out  and  shut  the  window  very 
softly.  She  turned  about,  and  the  little  room  held 
and  filled  her  eyes.  She  was  so  tired  that  she  could 
stand  no  more,  and  there  was  the  door  open !  More 
goading!  She  was  not  even  allowed  to  be  alone. 
In  a  moment  all  things,  and  pride,  went  down  within 
her,  and,  flinging  herself  face  down  upon  Keating's 
bed,  she  cried  as  only  women  and  children  may  cry. 
Nathalie  came  in  to  her  and  closed  the  door.  "  Oh, 
Nathalie,"  she  moaned  at  last,  "  it's  wrong,  wrong 
of  us  to  come  to  live  so  far  away  from  the  ones  who 
care  about  us !  " 


CHAPTER  XXI 

BOOKS    AND    BINDINGS 

KEATING  tossed  across  a  troubled  night  into  the 
dawn  of  his  hard  day.  Yesterday  he  had  been  a 
painter,  had  arrived  at  being  a  painter  by  a  way  so 
uncertain,  so  toilsome,  that  he  could  scarcely  believe 
in  it  at  all;  yesterday  he  had  finished  a  portrait  of 
Louisa  Garth.  To-day  he  was  a  penniless  man,  sit- 
ting in  his  overcoat  by  a  cold  stove,  staring  across 
the  big  room  at  the  portrait,  finished  only  yesterday, 
as  a  stranger  might  have  done. 

And  he  had  kept  his  promise  to  himself.  That 
was  something  to  his  credit,  though  it  did  little 
enough  towards  cheer  or  warmth.  Since  the  night 
—  actually  but  a  few  days  ago  —  when  he  had  bor- 
rowed money  of  Burroughs,  and  they  had  had  their 
strange  midnight  talk  together,  and  Burroughs  had 
told  him  that  he  hoped  to  marry  Louisa  Garth,  not 
one  incident  had  occurred  between  them  that  Bur- 
roughs himself  might  not  have  shared.  The  humili- 
ation of  that  night  had  sunk  Keating's  spirit  to  the 
depths.  But  he'd  caught  at  something  new  in  the 
darkness,  had  realised  his  own  lack  of  sophistica- 
tion, and  had  decided  once  and  for  all  that  the  so- 

186 


BOOKS  AND  BINDINGS  187 

phisticated  world  was  not  for  him;  that  he  did  not 
want  it!  The  long  talk  had  been  racking,  coming, 
as  it  had,  upon  the  heels  of  borrowing,  but  for  all 
that  he  had  profited.  The  night  would  stand  like 
a  ghost  between  him  and  Burroughs  always.  Ghosts 
are  made,  more  than  less,  of  humiliation,  and  if  they 
are  ever  laid  it  is  because  of  a  new  pride  that  comes 
of  their  oppressing  presence,  pride  slipping  in  when 
oppression  is  worn  out,  and  growing  like  the  staunch 
weed  it  is,  once  there. 

Keating  bent  over  with  his  elbows  resting  on  his 
knees,  stuffing  the  tobacco  into  his  pipe,  anxiously 
looking  into  his  pouch  to  see  how  much  of  the  conso- 
lation there  was  left  to  him.  In  the  crude,  early 
afternoon  light  his  clothes  looked  as  shabby  as  they 
were,  and  his  head  and  hands  as  rough  as  they  were. 
The  moment  was  given  over  to  reality,  to  fact. 
Alone  with  need,  in  the  fireless  room,  with  his  mask 
off,  Keating's  face  was  as  bitter  as  the  life  tasted  in 
his  mouth. 

And  Louisa  Garth  —  he  laughed  to  think  of  it  — 
was  in  her  studio  in  the  Rue  Falguiere,  mourning  for 
a  sister  she  probably  had  never  really  known,  wait- 
ing for  letters,  a  hundred  of  which  would  not  change 
the  simple  fact  of  death,  eating  her  heart  out  for  the 
things  all  her  money  could  neither  buy  her  nor  mend 
for  her. 

The  death  of  Louisa's  sister  had  saved  Keating 
much  —  and  Louisa,  too,  no  doubt;  had  carried 


188  FAME-SEEKERS 

them  over  a  crisis  that,  let  alone,  they'd  scarcely 
have  seen  a  way  to  bridge.  The  portrait  had  been 
finished  in  spite  of  everything.  And  now  he  was 
rid  of  the  girl  for  ever !  He  declared  to  himself  that 
that  was  the  way  he  felt  about  it. 

Keating,  though  he'd  have  resented  being  told  so, 
was  in  the  habit  of  being  in  love.  It  had  never 
gone  deep  with  him,  but  it  had  served  to  decorate  his 
long,  hard  way.  Till  to-day  he'd  never  felt  any 
shame  in  it;  had  never  reasoned  about  it  at  all. 
But  Burroughs,  with  his  considerations,  had  forced 
him  to  see  that  there  were  two  ways.  He  wondered, 
flushing,  alone  and  in  the  biting  cold,  if  they  all  re- 
membered him,  all  the  girls  he'd  known.  The 
friendly  egotism  moved,  and  he  looked  at  his  can- 
vas, and  vowed  that,  sooner  or  later,  he'd  put  pride 
into  their  various  memories  of  him !  He  walked  up 
and  down  the  room.  It  was  sharper  there  in  the 
studio  than  out  of  doors.  He  was  free  till  four 
o'clock.  He  could  have  gone  to  a  cafe,  but  there'd 
be  other  men  about,  certain  to  be  someone  or  other 
who'd  know  him,  and  there  was  no  talk  in  Keating 
for  that  hour. 

So  he  walked  his  hour  by,  back  and  forth,  over 
the  floor.  The  fireless  place  and  the  finished  por- 
trait had  as  little  intimacy  for  him  during  that  hour 
of  waiting  as  would  have  had  the  benches  and  post- 
ers in  some  railway  station,  with  a  strange  city  out- 
side its  windows.  The  hour  did  come  to  an  end, 


BOOKS  AND  BINDINGS  189 

and  for  one  moment  he  stood  with  his  hand  on  the 
door,  a  hurt  smile  about  his  mouth,  and  something 
he'd  have  allowed  no  one  to  see  in  his  eyes.  Then, 
mechanically,  he  went  outside,  locked  his  door  and 
started  down  the  stairs,  holding  the  key  in  his  hand, 
that  he  might  give  it  into  the  care  of  the  concierge. 

Half  way  down  the  last  flight  of  stairs  Keating 
stopped  and  stared  over  the  high  blank  walls  for  a 
hiding-place.  Louisa  Garth  was  coming  up ! 

Louisa  was  moving  slowly,  and  her  shoulders 
drooped  as  if  she  were  tired  out.  She  looked  up 
suddenly  and  saw  Keating  standing  above  her 
against  the  wall.  She  smiled  faintly  and  came  on 
to  him.  "  I've  come  for  my  books,"  she  said.  "  I'm 
just  in  time!  I  left  two  of  them  the  last  time  I  was 
here  on  the  shelf  in  the  studio.  They  are  tied  up  in 
a  package.  Didn't  you  see  them?  But,"  she 
smiled,  "  perhaps  you  haven't  dusted  your  shelf !  " 

"  But,"  and  Keating  blocked  the  way  stubbornly, 
"  I  have  been  out  all  day,  and  it  is  cold  up  there." 

"  Ah !  "  she  smiled  again.  "  What  does  it  mat- 
ter? It  certainly  can  be  no  colder  than  it  is  here, 
and  not  as  draughty." 

Keating  stood  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  consider- 
ing her  as  she  stood  against  the  light.  The  wintry 
air  and  colour  filtered  up  about  her  from  the  bot- 
tom of  the  well  of  stairs,  drawing  her  slender  sil- 
houette in  a  strangely  bright  line.  Keating  thought 
of  an  old  drawing  he  had  seen  in  a  museum,  a  draw- 


190  FAME-SEEKERS 

ing  of  a  lady  done  in  fine  outline,  and  her  heart 
painted  in,  in  bright  flat  red,  on  the  breast  of  her 
white  dress,  and  fine  points  of  colour  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  are  very  inhospitable."  She  moved  by  him 
and  above  him,  then  glanced  at  him  over  her  shoul- 
der. Her  smile  was  mirthless,  but  it  had  all  the 
sweetness  of  a  woman  who  has  been  suffering  as 
deeply  as  she  knows  how  to  suffer  and  has  succeeded 
in  getting  back  her  habits  of  life,  falling  again  into 
the  saving  way  of  routine. 

Keating,  dumb  and  clumsy,  followed  her,  unlock- 
ing his  door,  fumbling  the  key. 

"  It  is  cold  in  here !  "  She  laughed  a  little  to  see 
her  breath  upon  the  frosty  air,  and  she  tucked  her 
hands  deep  in  her  muff  with  an  exaggerated  shud- 
der. She  went  over  to  the  corner  where  she  had  left 
her  books.  They  were  lying  on  the  shelf,  untouched. 
She  turned  the  little  yellow  Chinese  vase  about  in  her 
black-gloved  hand  a  moment:  it  was  half-full  of 
blackened  water,  and  the  flowers  were  lying  on  top 
of  the  ashes  under  the  stove.  "  How  dreary  it  is 
here  to-day !  "  She  turned  about,  standing  against 
the  table  and  looking  around  the  studio  and  at  Keat- 
ing. "  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  the  whole  truth  about 
something !  "  She  bent  towards  him  as  if  she'd  com- 
pel the  truth,  as  if  she  could  compel  it.  "  Will  you 
tell  me  why  it  is  that  I  antagonise  you  all  so  ?  " 

Keating  was  mentally  painting  her  as  she  stood 
there,  slim  and  wonderful  in  her  black  dress  and  furs 


BOOKS  AND  BINDINGS  191 

against  the  light-toned  corner.  "  What  ?  "  he  said 
vaguely.  "  Antagonise  —  who  ?  "  He  was  won- 
dering if  she'd  ever  care  for  Burroughs. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  her  voice  a  little  hard.  "  You 
are  all  almost  unkind  to  me.  You  leave  me  out  of 
everything  that  matters.  Even  Will  Burroughs, 
when  he  talks  with  Nathalie  about  this  precious 
'  work '  you  are  all  so  lost  in,  leaves  me  out,  forgets 
that  I  am  in  the  room,  takes  my  lack  of  intelligence 
for  granted,  as  if  I  were  a  child  only  a  little  too  old 
to  be  sent  quite  out  of  the  room.  Do  you  think  me 
so  incapable  ?  You  know  there  are  people  who  think 
I  do  rather  well  at  my  work.  You  don't  know 
them,  so  you  do  not  consider  that." 

Keating  smiled  faintly,  then  he  took  the  books  out 
of  her  hand,  and,  untying  the  paper,  looked  at  them 
curiously.  "  You  see,"  he  said  slowly,  "  it's  hard 
for  me  to  put  things  into  words,  but,"  he  looked 
from  her  to  the  books,  "  but  these  aren't  books  to 
me  at  all,  and  I  suppose,  in  the  same  way,  your 
clothes  and  flubdubs  keep  me  from  really  believing 
that  you  are  a  human  being.  I'd  end  by  tearing  the 
cover  off,  I  guess,  or  I'd  give  up  reading!  I  guess 
that's  it." 

"  I  see,"  Louisa  smiled.  "  And  you  suppose  that 
I  do  not  realise  that  nothing  would  be  lost  to  the 
book  if  you  did  tear  the  cover  off?  May  I  tell  you 
what  you  all  seem  to  me?  Snobs."  She  spoke 
quietly,  no  trace  of  unkindness  or  resentment  in  her 


192  FAME-SEEKERS 

voice,  but  as  if  she  were  merely  getting  at  a  truth, 
even  a  little  amused  over  it. 

Keating  laughed  for  answer. 

"  One  has  to  learn  to  live  among  you,  just  as  one 
must  do  in  any  foreign  country.  You  are  selfish 
and  you  are  difficult.  Much  more  so  than  the  sort 
of  snobs  I'm  used  to.  I  suppose  it  is  your  armour ; 
I  suppose  you  must  be  like  that  in  order  to  keep  up 
your  dignity  when  luck  isn't  good.  But,"  she 
smiled,  "  you  are  dreadful  people  for  a  mere  human 
being  to  live  with." 

"  If,"  said  Keating  seriously,  "  you'd  have  said 
these  things  any  other  day  than  to-day,  I'd  have 
been  happy  to  argue  with  you.  I'm  rather  tired  of 
even  my  own  sort  of  snobs  to-day.  There  are  days 
when  life  is  too  real  for  banter,  Miss  Garth." 

"  Snob !  "  she  flashed  at  him  with  a  laugh  that 
was  more  spirited  than  any  he'd  heard  from  her  in 
a  long  time. 

Keating  stood  silent.  He  was  late,  he'd  have  to 
tell  her  in  a  moment  that  he  must  go.  He  wondered 
if  he'd  ever  talk  with  her  alone  again.  What  she 
was  saying  didn't  much  matter,  but  — 

Louisa  had  gone  over  near  her  portrait  and  stood 
considering  it.  She  turned  about  and  looked  at 
Keating  earnestly.  "  Of  course,  I  know  that  you 
have  been  troubled  lately.  I  can  see  right  through 
all  my  money,  you  know!  Don't  you  realise  that  I 


BOOKS  AND  BINDINGS  193 

did  not  earn  my  money;  that  it  was  left  to  me? 
that  I  did  not  either  ask  to  be  born,  or  ask  for 
money?  Why  won't  you  let  me  buy  my  own  por- 
trait?" 

Keating  looked  back  at  her  across  the  cold  light. 
"  Because  I  do  not  wish  to  sell  it.  Because  the 
one  luxury  I  have  is  in  my  free  opinions,  and  I  have 
opinions  about  —  " 

"  Oh,"  Louisa  broke  in  impatiently,  "  you  think 
I  do  not  appreciate  it,  that  I  want  it  because  of 
vanity  and  sentimentality,  and  all  that!  Opinions! 
You  are  hopeless,  all  of  you.  I  honestly  want  the 
portrait,  and  I  know  a  little,  for  all  that  you  think 
I  do  not  know,  about  the  priceless  side  of  things. 
Do  you  know,"  and  she  lifted  her  head,  "  you  and 
Nathalie  have  taught  me  much,  but  I've  been  learn- 
ing from  others,  too.  I  think  that  you'd  have 
something  to  learn  from  them,  and  their  sort.  I've 
been  going  every  day,  for  months,  to  a  bookbinder's 
studio,  and  I  am  the  only  American  there.  They 
have  not  taken  me  in,  either ;  but  they  —  are,"  she 
hesitated,  "  at  least,  they  are  grown  up  and  of  their 
world  worldly.  They  play  fair,  these  Europeans, 
and  though  they  dabble  in  their  small  sins,  they 
aren't  hypocritical  about  it.  And  they  aren't  pre- 
tentious. Grown-up !  "  She  spoke  slowly,  smiling 
as  she  turned  the  word  over.  "  I  think  that  is  what 
I  mean.  They  play  fair ;  they  are  frank  and  not  too 


194.  FAME-SEEKERS 

tragic.  They  have  all  the  wisdom  of  the  old 
world  in  their  eyes  and  ways.  I  think  you  make  a 
mistake  living  here  among  Americans.  It  keeps  you 
—  young.  Yes,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "  that's 
it,  I  do  believe.  You  paint  well,  and  play  well,  but 
you  trifle  with  life,  and  trifle  with  all  the  big  things 
that  are  n«t  directly  of  your  paint  or  of  your  music. 
I,"  she  smiled  and  picked  up  her  books  and  tucked 
them  into  her  muff,  "  am  going  away.  And,  though 
I  don't  mean  one  bit  to  be  unkind,  I  am  not  sorry  to 
go,  and  I  hope  that  nothing  ever  induces  me  to  come 
back  again ! " 

Keating's  face  was  aflame  —  and  his  thoughts 
came  blurred  and  stupefied.  "  Are  you  going  to 
America?  "  he  asked  her. 

"  No,  I'm  not  going  back  there  now.  There  is 
no  reason  for  going.  My  brother-in-law  thinks  I 
should  stay  on  here  for  the  present.  I  have  grown 
to  know  Paris  this  winter,  and  I  shall  stay  on,  but 
certainly  not  in  the  Rue  Falguiere.  I  shall  go  and 
live  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  among  the  rest  of 
the  unwise,  unstriving  world!  Don't  you  think  I'll 
do  better  over  there  ?  They  —  "  she  laughed,  a  lit- 
tle catch  in  her  voice,  "  will  be  glad  to  see  me,  and 
they'll  think  my  book-covers  quite  wonderful!  At 
least,"  she  laughed,  "  I,  too,  have  been  growing  up, 
and  a  little  praise  won't  deceive  me." 

Keating's  hand  went  up  and  he  laughed  brusquely. 
He  was  tempted  to  shock  her  into  a  yet  deeper  real- 


BOOKS  AND  BINDINGS  195 

ity.  "  That's  odd !  I'd  thought  of  going  over 
there  a  while  to  live  myself !  " 

"Really?"  Louisa  looked  at  him  curiously,  star- 
tled. 

"  I  shall  hope  to  profit  by  it,  if  I  go,"  said  Keat- 
ing sharply. 

Louisa  turned  her  eyes  back  to  the  little  yellow 
vase.  "  I  hope  /  haven't  seemed  —  brusque,  in  say- 
ing all  these  things.  I  did  not  mean  to  be  in  the 
least  ill-natured,  or  unkind.  It  only  seemed  worth 
while  to  me  to  get  at  the  facts  about  us  all.  One 
must  talk  about  mere  facts  once  in  a  while ! "  She 
walked  across  the  room  and  looked  for  a  long  mo- 
ment at  the  portrait,  at  her  painted  self,  and  into  her 
painted  eyes.  "  I  hope  you  will  have  a  real  success 
with  the  canvas,"  she  smiled  at  him  sincerely.  "  I 
shall  have  news  of  you  through  Nathalie.  I  must 
go,"  she  said  suddenly,  with  a  brisk  little  formal  air. 
She  came  to  Keating  and  gave  him  her  hand,  and  in 
an  another  moment,  an  incredibly  brief  moment,  she 
had  gone !  Louisa  Garth,  in  her  new  black  clothes, 
and  with  her  two  elaborately  bound  books  under  her 
arm,  had  gone.  She'd  never  go  through  that  door 
again,  either  in  or  out,  and  they  both  knew  it. 

Keating  tried  his  best  to  like  his  own  part  in  the 
scene  just  lived  through.  He  suddenly  realised 
what  the  slipping  time  might  be  losing  for  him,  and 
once  more  the  old  grey  door  was  opened  and  closed. 
This  time  the  grey  room  had  its  while  of  gather- 


196  FAME-SEEKERS 

ing  dust  and  utter  stillness,  for  it  was  a  long  time 
before  Keating  came  back  to  demand  his  key  of  the 
concierge.  Even  she  never  came  up,  nor  disturbed 
anything.  She  knew  better  than  anybody  that  there 
was  nothing  to  be  found  worth  while  in  a  poor  man's 
studio. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  GIRL  AND  THE  STAB 

"  I'M  nervous,"  confessed  Nathalie,  huddling  down 
in  an  arm-chair  in  the  middle  of  Burroughs'  big 
studio. 

They  had  just  come  in  together,  and  Burroughs 
glanced  at  her  across  the  lamp  he  was  lighting,  then 
he  tipped  the  shade  carefully  so  that  it  screened  her 
eyes. 

"  Well,  there  is  an  hour  at  least  in  which  to  quiet 
down  before  Keating  can  possibly  get  over  here. 
I'm  a  little  nervous  myself,  if  that  is  any  comfort  to 
you !  "  He  brought  some  soft  pillows  for  her  arm- 
chair. 

The  cold  weather  had  suddenly  broken  and  spring 
warmth  seemed  to  have  arrived  in  a  night,  a  night 
that  had  set  in  cold  enough.  All  day  long  the  air 
had  been  murky,  and  .the  clouds  flying  low.  Since 
dusk  the  rain  had  set  in,  gusty  storms  of  big,  warm, 
pattering  drops,  and  impish  draughts  were  playing 
everywhere,  fluttering  the  lamp  flame,  shaking  pa- 
pers, raising  dust  and  clattering  doors  and  windows. 

"  Perhaps  Keating  won't  be  able  to  come,"  Nath- 
alie suggested. 

197 


198  FAME-SEEKERS 

"  He'll  come,"  said  Burroughs. 

Nathalie's  sigh  admitted  that  pretending  was  no 
use.  Keating  had  written  that  he  would  come,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  expect  him. 

"  He  probably  hasn't  a  car-fare  in  his  pocket, 
and  it's  a  long  walk  across  town,"  said  Burroughs. 
"  Valets  aren't  paid  in  advance,  you  know.  He 
wrote  that  he  would  be  late.  Poor  old  Keating! 
No  one  will  ever  be  able  to  accuse  him  of  being 
afraid  to  work." 

"  Keating's  not  the  first  man  I've  known  who  has 
been  forced  down  to  that  sort  of  thing,"  said  Natha- 
lie. She  had  her  head  back  on  the  cushions,  and 
her  eyes  were  following  the  scurrying  clouds  above 
the  sky-light.  "  It's  harder  than  anyone  knows  for 
an  American  over  here,  no  matter  how  honestly  he 
wants  work.  I've  seen  so  much  of  it,  men  and 
women,  too.  I  knew  one  man,  Burroughs,  a  man 
with  a  will,  and  courage,  and  no  end  of  talent. 
Something  went  wrong  with  his  money,  I  don't  know 
just  what,  and  he  walked  the  streets  hunting  work 
till  he  very  nearly  starved.  He  could  have  been 
helped  back  home,  but  it  meant  everything  to  him  to 
stay.  The  people  who  are  ready  and  able  to  help 
nearly  always  insist  upon  helping  back.  They  let 
him  build  fires  and  be  janitor  at  the  Little  Tin 
Church,  and  he  kept  his  body  and  soul  together  like 
that  —  sort  of  basted  together.  And  somebody 
thought  he'd  '  helped  '  an  artist !  It  takes  an  artist 


THE  GIRL  AND  THE  STAR          199 

to  help  an  artist,"  Nathalie  sighed.  "  In  the  end 
he  had  to  let  them  help  him  some  more,  help  him 
back  to  America,  because  his  health  gave  out.  Not 
long  after  I  saw  some  beautiful  drawings  of  his  in  a 
magazine.  Then  nothing  more,  ever.  He  may  have 
gone  under;  I  don't  know.  One  has  to  give  up  so 
many,  many  interesting  people  in  the  crowd  of  them 
over  here.  Oh,  Burroughs,"  her  voice  quivered,  and 
she  sat  forward,  her  face  vivid  in  the  shadowy  light, 
"  this  life  wracks  me  so  sometimes.  Everybody  suf- 
fers so !  You  and  Louisa  think  me  a  poor  mite,  no 
doubt,  and  I  am,  compared  with  you,  but  I  can  never 
tell  you  how  thankful  I  am  that  I  have  money 
enough  to  pay  my  way.  I've  had  enough  for  my 
lessons,  my  piano  and  my  violin ;  and  after  this,  I'll 
have  enough  to  pay  for  my  continuous  freedom.  I 
shall  always  be  able  to  own  my  own  soul  and  body. 
Music  has  its  by-paths,  its  ways  and  means,  Bur- 
roughs !  If  one  can't  pay  —  then  one  must  either 
take  a  by-path  or  give  up." 

"  I  know,"  said  Burroughs,  watching  her  quietly. 

"  The  horror  of  it  is  that  nine  out  of  ten  of  them 
who  can't  pay,  and  try  the  by-paths,  haven't  either 
the  voice,  or  the  fingers,  to  make  good." 

"  Then  one  comes  along  like  you,"  Burroughs 
smiled.  "  You'll  make  good,  Nat." 

For  a  long  moment  Nathalie  let  Burroughs  see 
straight  into  her  dark  eyes,  then  she  gave  a  comical 
little  sigh.  "  It's  simply  awful  to  be  counted  upon 


200  FAME-SEEKERS 

like  that!  Do  you  imagine  that  I  am  never  tired, 
or  weak?  " 

"  I  know  that  you  are,  very  often,"  said  Bur- 
roughs. "  You  are  a  very  human  little  being.  You 
couldn't  play  worth  a  fiddle  string  if  you  weren't. 
You  are  an  all-around  person,  my  girl,  and  that's 
why  you'll  win.  All-talent  doesn't  win  any  more 
than  does  all-head." 

There  was  a  sound  on  the  landing,  and  they  both 
stared  at  the  door. 

"  It  was  just  the  tapestry  lady  sighing,"  smiled 
Burroughs.  "  She  often  does  when  it's  stormy !  " 

Nathalie  huddled  back  in  her  chair.  "  I  dread 
his  coming  so ! "  she  confessed.  "  I'm  all  afraid. 
Afraid  to  see  him !  " 

"  It's  no  good  being  afraid  with  Keating,  Nat. 
He's  gone  through  harder  places  than  masquerading 
as  man-servant  to  a  painter." 

"  If  we  could  only  be  sure  of  what  all  this  has  done 
to  Keating's  sense  of  humour,"  Nathalie  groaned. 
"  And  it  is  all  very  romantic  if  he  wins ;  but,  Bur- 
roughs —  if  he  fails  !  " 

"  He  daren't  fail,"  said  Burroughs  grimly. 
"  The  picture  is  the  best  he's  done.  There  isn't 
another  man  of  his  age  who  could  have  painted  it. 
I'm  looking  after  sending  it  in.  Everything  is  be- 
ing done  that  anyone  could  do.  It  goes  with  my 
stuff  to-morrow." 

"  You've  been  a  brick,"  said  Nathalie.  "  I  don't 
know  what  he'd  have  done  without  you.  How  friends 


THE  GIRL  AND  THE  STAR  201 

do  count  in  this  striving,  fame-seeking  part  of  the 
world!" 

"  More  than  in  other  parts,  you  think,  Nat?  " 

Nathalie  gave  in  to  an  unbefooled  little  laugh. 
"  I  do  love  to  hear  myself  talk !  " 

"Keating  painted  his  own  picture,"  remarked 
Burroughs. 

"  I  wanted  to  help  him,"  Nathalie  said,  her  arms 
under  her  head  and  her  voice  sunk  to  the  low  tone 
of  thinking  aloud.  *'  I  even  meddled  with  the  paint- 
ing of  his  picture !  But  what  on  earth  can  a  woman 
do  for  a  man  like  Keating?  " 

"  Only  play  the  deuce  with  him,  my  dear  girl," 
said  Burroughs  frankly.  "  A  man  may  do  very  lit- 
tle. He's  self-reliance  itself,  and  help  glances  off 
him  as  if  he  were  a  man  of  iron." 

"  I  know,"  said  Nathalie.  "  Accept  a  push  ahead 
and  you  spend  the  rest  of  your  life  catching  up  with 
yourself.  You  can't  push  talent;  it's  a  growing- 
thing.  Nothing  so  plays  the  dickens  with  talent  as 
being  hurried  by  one's  kind  friends.  I'm  so  glad," 
she  veered  the  subject  and  turned  her  head  sideways 
on  her  cushion  to  look  at  him,  "  so  more  than  glad, 
that  Louisa  is  away !  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  have 
come  for  me  at  all,  wouldn't  have  told  me  even,  if 
she'd  been  here?  I  do  wish,"  she  said  slowly,  "  that 
I  could  understand  her  going  like  that ;  all  in  a  min- 
ute. She  puzzled  me  almost  as  much  as  she  re- 
lieved me !  " 

Burroughs  laughed,  then  he  spoke  rapidly,  as  if 


202  FAME-SEEKERS 

to  get  through  with  something  disturbing.  "  Day 
before  yesterday,  Nat  —  while  you  were  off  at  your 
lesson,  I  went 'down  to  your  place  and  asked  Louisa 
to  marry  me." 

"  Why,  Will  Burroughs !  " 

"  She  wouldn't,  and  she  never  will.  She  left  me 
no  room  for  doubt.  I  knew  she  wouldn't  anyway. 
But  we  had  a  long  talk  about  many  other  serious 
things  besides  me.  She  promised  never  to  send  any 
books  to  any  Salon,  to  let  the  professional  end  of 
things  be.  I  convinced  her  that  there  are  danger- 
flags  at  the  door  of  all  professions  and  that  mighty 
few  who  go  through  are  immune  to  the  depressing 
disease  that  lives  there.  And  I  asked  her  to 
go  away  and  let  you  be  alone,  at  least  till  your 
audition  is  over.  Because,  for  all  that  you  are  the 
sandiest  girl  I've  ever  known,  you  are  worried  and 
fagged.  You  are  the  one  star  among  us,  Nathalie, 
and  I  made  her  see  that  it  is  up  to  us  to  help  you 
shine.  Louisa  was  not  only  reasonable  but  very 
sweet  about  it.  So  reasonable,  that  I  suspect  she 
had  arrived  at  the  same  conclusions  by  her  own 
round-about  way.  Louisa  touches  me  very  much 
since  her  sister's  death." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  say  first,"  and  Nathalie 
sat  gazing  at  him. 

"  Let  it  all  go  unsaid,  then." 

"  One  thing  you  are  mistaken  about,  and  that's 
me,"  she  smiled.  "  So  far  as  the  music  is  concerned 


THE  GIRL  AND  THE  STAR          203 

nothing  ever  throws  me  off,  or  will  ever  keep  me  back. 
I'm  not  *  fagged  '  or  *  worried  '  so  far  as  that  goes." 
She  spoke  quietly,  but  there  was  a  ring  of  pure  as- 
surance through  her  voice  that  thrilled  them  both. 
"  It  is  a  force  a  great  deal  bigger,  and  stronger,  and 
finer,  than  I.  When  my  time  comes  there  is  only  one 
thing  to  do :  —  get  up  and  play.  It's  —  a  mystery 
to  me,  more  than  it  can  be  to  anyone  else.  I  can 
break  my  heart  over  other  things,  but  they  do  not 
touch  the  music.  When  I  may  play,  all  the  other 
things,  good  or  bad,  lump  up  together;  seem  to  sit 
back  and  let  me  be  in  peace,  and  I  don't  give  a  hang 
about  anything,  anything ! "  Nathalie  got  up  and 
walked  about  the  big  room,  then  she  came  back  to 
Burroughs  and  bent  down,  resting  her  hands  on  the 
arm  of  his  chair.  A  boyish,  gamin-like  gleam  shot 
across  her  face.  "  I've  got  to  say  it,  Will  Bur- 
roughs, or  I'll  smother.  I'm  as  glad  as  I  can  be  that 
Louisa  wouldn't  have  you !  " 

Burroughs  stared  at  her  for  a  moment  of  right- 
eous amazement,  then  he  gave  in  to  a  great  laugh. 
"  Want  me  yourself,  Nat?  " 

"  Horrors,  no !  "  She  stepped  back  from  him, 
laughing,  too.  "  But  I  mean  it.  You  may  call  me 
a  cat,  anything  you  like ;  I  shan't  care.  Why,  man 
alive,  think  what  a  life  you  have  now.  She'd  do  away 
with  just  everything!"  and  she  gave  an  inclusive 
wave  of  her  arm  about  the  place,  letting  him  fill  in 
the  circle. 


204  FAME-SEEKERS 

"  That,"  said  Burroughs,  gravely  again,  "  is  ex- 
actly what  Louisa  told  me  herself !  " 

Nathalie  slipped  back  into  her  chair  and  sat  very 
still  through  a  long  silence. 

"  Asleep  ?  "  ventured  Burroughs  at  last. 

"  Not  much !  "  she  groaned.  "  I  was  only  think- 
ing about  myself." 

"  Coincidence,"  Burroughs  smiled. 

"  Do  you  know  I  don't  feel  like  joking,"  said 
Nathalie,  her  elbows  on  her  knees  and  a  practical 
little  manner,  that  Burroughs  liked  her  best  in,  upon 
her.  "  I  believe  I've  grown  hard,  Burroughs.  I've 
eaten,  lived  and  slept  my  music  till  I've  lost  —  some- 
thing, what  is  it?  to  pay  for  the  selfishness.  I've 
not  lost  my  feelings  about  many  things,  goodness 
knows  ;  but  I've  got  so  into  the  habit  of  putting  them 
back  that  I've  been  a  little  unfair  to  other  people's. 
That's  the  way  of  the  work-a-day  world,  isn't  it? 
It's  got  its  head  in  the  clouds,  but  it  is  rough-shod. 
Burroughs,"  she  seemed  to  break  a  little,  "  I  don't 
want  to  grow  hard,  and  too  self-reliant,  and  —  pro- 
fessional ! " 

"  Haven't  I  just  been  telling  you  that  you  are  a 
very  human  —  " 

A  sharp  tap  at  the  door  brought  them  both  to 
their  feet,  self  put  back  instantly,  ready  to  face  a 
trouble  that  seemed  greater  for  its  nearness  than  any 
of  their  own. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE    COMIC-OPERA    VALET 

BEFORE  Burroughs  could  cross  the  room  the  door 
opened  and  Keating,  in  an  ill-fitting  dress-suit,  fur- 
nished no  doubt  out  of  Binnington's  cast-offs,  with  a 
handkerchief  across  his  arm,  stood  with  head  low 
and  back  bent  double  before  them. 

"  Dinner  is  served,"  he  announced  gravely.  As 
he  lifted  his  head  his  eyes  fell  upon  Nathalie  and  all 
the  mockery  slipped  off  his  face. 

Nathalie  came  straight  to  him.  "  It's  no  use  re- 
senting me,  Keating,"  she  said  warmly.  "  I  knew 
you  were  delving  at  something  and  I  worried  poor 
Burroughs  to  tell  me  till  he  had  no  other  way.  He 
brought  me  with  him  to-night  to  get  rid  of  me.  We 
are  —  quite  alone,"  she  said,  noting  his  glance 
searching  about  the  place.  "  No  one  else  knows :  no 
one!  And  I  didn't  come  to  argue,  to  tell  you  to 
give  up  your  —  job,"  she  laughed  a  little  and  as 
bravely  as  she  could.  "  I  just  came  to  see  you  and 
hear  your  adventures." 

Keating's  face  worked  and  he  dropped  her  hand 
quickly.  He  picked  up  his  hat  and  coat  from  the 
landing  and  laid  them  on  the  floor  inside.  Bur- 

305 


206  FAME-SEEKERS 

roughs  closed  the  door  and  brought  him  to  the  cen- 
tre of  the  room,  then  hung  his  overcoat  upon  a  chair. 
They  stood  him  off  and  looked  him  over  critically, 
they  laughed  and  turned  him  about,  and  they  did  all 
of  the  gentle-rough  things  to  him  that  human  beings 
have  a  way  of  doing  to  one  another  when  feelings 
crowd  the  moment. 

"  You,  Keating!  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you 
actually  served  that  donkey  Binnington  his  dinner ! " 

"  And  I  haven't  upset  the  soup  yet,"  laughed  Keat- 
ing. 

Nathalie  beamed  upon  him,  and  they  all  laughed 
and  laughed,  and  everything  sounded  a  great  deal 
louder  than  they  had  intended  it  should  sound. 

"  But  Binnington's  not  a  donkey  at  all,"  said 
Keating,  and  to  hide  his  unsteadiness  he  put  him- 
self among  the  cushions  far  back  on  the  couch. 
"  He's  a  pretty  square  sort,  and  he  pays  well.  He 
wants  the  dinners  I  give  him  as  much  as  I  want  the 
money  he's  going  to  give  me.  So  far  as  that  goes 
Binnington  and  I  are  quits." 

They  drew  their  chairs  up  close  to  the  couch. 
Burroughs  offered  him  a  cigarette  and  held  the 
match.  "  Now,"  said  Nathalie,  "  tell  us  everything ! 
Keating,  when  you  are  famous  this  will  make  the 
greatest  *  copy  '  !  Tell  us !  "  Burroughs  had  no 
words  left.  He  could  not  bear  to  look  at  Keating 
in  his  ill-fitting  habit  of  service. 

"  It's  the  women  who  help  me  every  time,"  said 


THE  COMIC-OPERA  VALET  207 

Keating  after  a  long  look  that  searched  for  reassur- 
ance about  the  great  quiet  studio.  "  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  Binnington's  mother  I'd  never  have  made  it 
at  all.  The  poor  old  lady  can't  speak  a  word  of 
French ;  doesn't  want  to  speak  it.  She  hates  it,  the 
way  she  hates  everything  French.  When  I  applied  I 
thought  I  was  just  to  be  Binnington's  man,  to  look 
after  the  studio,  Binnington,  his  paint-brushes  and 
all  that.  But  their  maid  was  caught  with  something 
in  her  pocket  that  didn't  belong  there,  and  they  sent 
her  off  the  very  hour  I  got  there.  So  for  the  time 
I'm  house-maid,  too!  It  raises  the  pay,  so  I  don't 
give  a  hang.  The  cook  does  the  marketing  and  I 
know  enough  French  to  answer  the  door-bell!  Bin- 
nington Senior  seems  to  be  —  absent.  Probably  died 
hearing  his  son  talk  art.  There  is  a  little  sister  —  a 
nice  little  porcelain  thing.  She  looks  a  baby  but  she 
knows  how  to  make  the  money  fly.  She  can  talk 
French  all  around  any  of  'em.  She  spells  her  name 
M-a-e.  I  know,  because  it  is  a  heavy  part  of  my 
present  work  to  give  her  her  letters.  I  give  'em  to 
her  on  a  little  scallopy  silver  tray.  I  bet  they'd 
make  good  reading  —  M-a-e's  letters !  " 

"  I  know  her,  a  little,"  smiled  Burroughs. 

"  I've  met  her  and  her  mother  at  teas,"  said  Natha- 
lie. "  I  thought  her  mother  was  sweet." 

"  That  she  is,"  said  Keating  warmly.  "  She  and 
I  did  a  dramatic  scene  between  us  the  other  morning 
when  I  applied.  She  was  as  frightened  as  I  was,  and 


308  FAME-SEEKERS 

we  ticked  at  one  another  like  two  rusty  old  clocks 
wound  up  too  tight.  Then  she  asked  me  for  my  ref- 
erences. I  thought  I  was  done  for.  I'd  forgotten 
all  about  'em,  though  the  ad.  mentioned  them  plain 
enough.  I  might  have  said  I'd  bring  them  in  an 
hour,  or  that  I'd  misplaced  them,  then  come  over  to 
you  to  cook  'em  up  for  me,  but  I  blurted  out  that  I 
hadn't  any.  She  made  a  gently  cynical  remark 
about  my  having  asked  for  high  wages  for  a  man 
without  references.  I  don't  know  just  what  I  said, 
but  I  let  go  and  told  the  old  lady  that  I  had  to  have 
work  and  that  I'd  do  my  level  best  to  please  her  if 
she'd  try  me.  I  am  on  trial  for  a  week.  I've  got 
Binnington  landed,  for  I  know  what  he  wants,  and  I 
can  wash  brushes.  Mae  doesn't  much  care  for  the 
way  I  do  her  room,  and  I  don't  much  care  for  the 
way  she  orders  me  about.  She's  a  corker  for  her 
size!" 

"  You  actually  do  house-work,  Keating?  " 
Nathalie  gave  in  to  a  genuine  laugh. 

Keating  laughed  with  her.  "  You  ought  to  j  ust 
see  me!  They  don't  expect  any  style  from  me  and 
it's  not  so  bad,  after  all.  I've  had  luck  about  break- 
ing things  thus  far.  I  studied  up  table-service  once 
for  some  illustrations  some  angel  art-editor  —  any- 
way he's  an  angel-one  by  this  time !  —  gave  me  to  do. 
It  was  a  scene  that  took  place  in  a  dining-room.  I 
had  a  model  for  the  waiter,  a  strange,  dug-up,  half- 
starved  devil  who'd  been  an  actor  and  was  willing 


THE  COMIC-OPERA  VALET  209 

enough  to  be  again,  and  he  had  done  the  part  of  a 
waiter.  He  showed  me  how  the  thing  is  done  behind 
the  lamps.  I  thought  then  that  it  was  by  way  of 
illustrating  that  story  that  I  had  the  luck  to  find 
him ;  now  I  know  that  it  was  Providence  looking  after 
me.  I  —  "  his  jesting  stopped  and  he  stared  at  his 
cigarette,  "  I  waited  in  a  Chicago  restaurant  once, 
for  my  food.  It  was  a  vile  hole,  but  I  learned  to  hold 
on  to  a  hot  plate  without  making  faces."  He  was 
quiet  a  moment,  smoking  and  resting  among  the 
cushions.  "  The  Binningtons'  cook  is  an  angel. 
I'd  not  have  gone  far  in  this  world  without  the  con- 
solation of  the  gentler  sex." 

"  We'll  trip  you  up  one  day,"  threatened  Nathalie, 
interrupting  him.  "  This  angel-cook?  "  She  took 
him  in  broadly. 

"  She's  from  London,  and  she  looks  like  a  deep- 
sea  fish.  But  her  heart  is  warm  and  she  knows  her 
trade.  She  gave  me  a  beautiful  dinner  to-night ! " 
He  leaned  back  and  smiled  from  one  to  the  other. 
"  Soup,  fish,  roast,  salad,  pudding  and  coffee !  " 

"  And  Binnington  himself?  "  queried  Burroughs. 

"  Binnington?  He's  rich,  and  he  looks  it.  I 
could  pass  him  in  the  street  and  never  know  it.  What 
a  studio !  That,  I'll  never  forget." 

"  Why?  "  asked  Nathalie  absently. 

"  It's  art-nouveau.  It's  just  like  Mary's  restau- 
rant —  only  it  cost  more,  and  there's  a  piano. 
There  are  screens,  and  a  whole  ballet  of  unholy  lamp- 


210  FAME-SEEKERS 

shades.  Every  jar  in  the  room  is  filled  with  expen- 
sive fancy  brushes,  and  the  corners  are  full  of  hand- 
made frames.  There  is  a  stuffed  bird  on  a  funny 
little  bracket  against  the  wall,  and  it  looks  like  the 
hat  of  a  street-walker.  When  I've  had  enough  of  it 
and  want  to  be  fired  I'm  going  in  there  with  a  feather 
duster  and  have  it  out  with  that  bird ! "  Keating 
sat  forward  all  at  once,  tense  and  alert.  "  I've  seen 
his  Salon  pictures,  Burroughs.  He  showed  them  to 
me  with  a  little  off-hand  air  when  he  was  explaining 
the  work  to  me.  Women,  they  are,  satin  and  dia- 
monds and  things.  I  know  now  that  I  should  have 
painted  Miss  Garth  in  that  other  rig  of  hers,  the 
show-one  I  spoilt  for  her.  Binnington's  things  are 
showy  all  right.  Of  course  I  really  don't  hope  to  be 
made  a  member.  If  I  get  in  and  am  not  placed  like  a 
flying-machine  I'll  be  glad.  Then  when  I've  got  a 
couple  of  months'  wages  ahead  I'll  sneak  off  to  the 
country  and  hammer  out  some  honest  landscapes 
for  next  year.  This  portrait  business  makes  me 
sick.  It's  all  mixed  up  with  human  beings.  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  hearing  Binnington  talking  over  his 
chances  to-night  at  dinner,"  he  laughed  shortly. 
"  He's  pretty  sure  he's  all  right.  I've  picked  up  a 
good  deal  of  useful  information  though,  and  by  the 
time  I've  done  with  him  I'll  be  a  regular  walking- 
book  of  Artists'  Tips.  There's  a  lot  of  politics 
mixed  up  in  the  game  over  here,  and  Binnington 
seems  to  know  it  all.  It  is  —  sickening !  " 


THE  COMIC-OPERA  VALET 

"  It  is,"  agreed  Burroughs.  "  But  you've  got  to 
keep  that  down.  Art  is  one  thing  and  money-making 
another,  and  if  you  go  in  for  making  money  out  of 
art  you've  got  to  keep  your  art  and  yourself  to- 
gether and  attend  to  business  with  whatever  of  brain 
is  required  and  no  more.  I  have  never  yet  met  a 
happy  portrait  painter.  If  I  were  you,  of  course 
I'd  paint,  and  send  my  things  to  picture  shows  and 
let  business  come  as  it  happens.  You'll  never  be  able 
to  prune  yourself  down  to  a  tradesman.  Your  pic- 
tures will  take  care  of  you.  Don't  get  results  into 
your  head  at  all.  They'll  muddle  you.  I'd  not  give 
a  thought  to  this  membership  business  if  I  were  you. 
I  honestly  believe  Binnington  will  get  in.  And  it 
hasn't  a  thing,  or  mighty  little,  to  do  with  merit." 

"  Binnington  is  the  sort  of  clever  ass  that  brays 
at  you  till  he  sends  your  good  sense  into  deafness 
and  you  try  to  stand  on  four  legs  and  bray  back !  " 

"  He  needs  all  his  money,  no  doubt,"  smiled  Natha- 
lie. 

"  Why  ?  "  demanded  Keating  bluntly. 

"  Has  he  so  much  else?  " 

"  Don't  fool  yourself  about  that,"  said  Keating. 
"  He's  got  just  about  all  he'd  know  how  to  use." 
He  shifted  about  and  pulled  hard  at  his  cigarette. 

"  Do  you  mind  telling  us  what  pay  you  get,  old 
man?"  asked  Burroughs. 

"  Ninety  francs  a  month,  ten  for  wine,  ten  for 
washing,  food,  clothes  and  a  room.  Then  I  buy  the 


212  FAME-SEEKERS 

fruit  and  cheese  and  all  the  shoe-polish  and  things, 
and  I  get  my  '  sou  the  franc.'  It  adds  up  very  well." 

"  That  might  be  worse,"  said  Nathalie. 

"  It  might  indeed,"  said  Keating.  "  I  can  save  it, 
about  all  of  it."  '  His  head  hung  back  and  he  sighed, 
then  he  looked  straight  at  them.  "  But  it  is  earned, 
every  sou  of  it !  My  name  is  *  Jenkins  '  now.  I 
must  get  well  into  harness  and  try  to  keep  the  place, 
for  it's  a  God-send.  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  be 
able  to  come  over  here  again.  I  have  every  other 
Sunday  afternoon  off.  You  might  meet  me  and  we 
could  put  the  time  in  at  the  Louvre?  No  danger  of 
Binnington  showing  up  anywhere  on  the  people's 
day!  It'll  be  about  three  weeks  before  I  know 
whether  I  get  my  pictures  in  or  not,  won't  it?  Then 
another  time  of  '  nothing  doing '  till  the  show  opens 
and  I  know  if  I'm  skied.  If  I  get  in!  If  I  don't 
make  it,  then  —  "  he  flecked  the  ash  off  his  cigarette. 
It  fell  in  a  little  heap  between  his  feet  and  he  sat 
staring  at  the  grey  spot.  Suddenly  he  placed  his 
foot  over  the  bit  of  ash  and  spread  it  viciously,  car- 
ing neither  for  Burroughs'  floor  nor  for  what  they 
might  think.  He  raised  his  head  and  laughed  to  see 
both  of  them  staring  at  his  foot.  "  Let's  have  a 
look  at  my  picture,  Burroughs,"  he  suddenly  changed 
the  subject.  "Would  you  mind  pulling  the  thing 
out  into  the  light  for  me?  I've,"  he  laughed  glumly, 
"  I've  got  *  house-maid's  knee  '  !  " 

The  picture  was  drawn  out  and  lifted  to  the  easeli 


•NOWTHAT  I'VE  HAD  A  GOOD  MEAL  I  THINK  EVEN  BETTER  OF  IT' 


THE  COMIC-OPERA  VALET  213 

Nathalie  helping,  and  Keating  lookingi  on  like  an 
owl.  Burroughs  brought  the  lamp  and  set  it  on  a 
table  near  by,  then  they  stood  back  looking  from 
Keating  to  the  portrait.  Keating  took  it  in  with 
care  for  every  detail,  then  he  gave  a  great  sigh  of 
relief.  It  had  stood  the  change  of  setting,  was  just 
as  fine  in  Burroughs'  beautiful  studio  as  it  had  been 
in  the  barn-like  room  in  which  it  had  been  painted ! 
"  Now  that  I've  had  a  good  meal  I  think  even  better 
of  it ! "  he  smiled  happily.  "  And  the  frame  is  all 
right,  Burroughs,"  he  rambled  on,  basking  for  the 
happy  moment  in  the  presence  of  all  that  he  pos- 
sessed. "  Binnington  be  hanged !  "  he  whispered  ec- 
statically. 

"  That's  right,"  said  Burroughs,  leaning  against 
the  wall  near  him.  "  You  need  not  worry  about  it. 
It  will  take  precious  good  care  of  itself,  from 
now  on." 

Keating  got  up  and  went  close  to  the  canvas.  He 
touched  a  spot  here  and  there  with  the  flat  of  his 
thumb  to  see  how  the  varnish  had  caught  and  his 
hand  moved  intimately  over  the  surfaces  of  the  paint 
where  some  bit  of  brush-work  amused  him  or  pleased 
him.  He  dropped  his  hands  at  last  and  looked  into 
the  painted  face. 

"  You  were  right,  Nathalie ! "  he  turned  his  head 
about  and  glanced  at  her.  "  It's  good,  and  like  her, 
but  I'll  never  paint  another  woman  smiling."  He 
left  the  portrait  without  another  glance,  and  took 


214  FAME  SEEKERS 

up  his  hat  and  coat.  Burroughs  was  glad  when  the 
overcoat  covered  the  loose  dress-suit.  Keating 
looked  anxiously  up  at  the  sky-light.  He  dreaded 
the  long  walk  across  town  through  the  rain. 

"  Here  you  are,"  said  Burroughs,  giving  him  an 
umbrella  out  of  a  tall  jar  in  the  corner.  "  I've  got 
two  others.  Bring  it  back  next  time  you  come." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Keating,  absently  examining  the 
handle.  "  I'll  just  depend  on  you,  Burroughs,  to  see 
that  the  picture  goes  in.  And  if  you  have  anything 
to  tell  me,  either  of  you,  write  to  Jenkins,  care  of 
Binnington.  But  don't  write  post  cards ! "  And 
then  he  got  precipitately  out  of  the  place. 

An  hour  later  Burroughs,  having  taken  Nathalie 
home,  let  himself  into  his  studio  again.  He  poured 
himself  out  a  drink,  and  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat 
for  a  long  time  with  Keating's  portrait  of  Louisa 
Garth.  The  glass  empty  and  the  stillness  telling  the 
late  hour,  he  drew  out  his  own  two  canvases,  the  two 
he  was  sending  in  to  the  Salon.  He  stood  them  in 
the  light  and  looked  at  them  contentedly.  "  Some 
of  these  days  we'll  try  a  big  thing  ourselves !  "  He 
stretched  out  in  his  chair  and  smoked  another  ciga- 
rette, then,  with  a  comfortably  unapologetic  yawn, 
he  went  off  to  bed,  thinking  of  Keating  and  his 
chances ;  of  Keating,  the  man  to  whom  debt  or  bor- 
rowing was  more  impossible  than  menial  work. 

It  was  hard  for  a  man  like  Burroughs  to  follow  the 
principle  all  its  way.  He  was  spoilt,  no  doubt,  with 


THE  COMIC-OPERA  VALET  215 

comfort,  or  with  the  compensating  fact  that  at  a 
lift  of  his  hand  he  could  have  comfort.  That  made 
doing  without,  seem,  if  not  trivial,  at  least  endurable, 
and  decorative.  Certainly  the  quarter  life  is  noth- 
ing but  discomfort  when  it  is  not  decorative. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

HABBOUR  AND  CITY 

IT  was  a  fine  spring  morning,  with  a  sky  like  a  great 
bowl  of  blue,  purplish  at  the  rim,  the  sun  was  warm 
and  stirring,  and  only  in  the  deepest  of  the  shadows 
was  there  any  trace  left  of  the  chill  of  yesterday's 
winter.  Rows  of  unsuspected  awnings  were  unfurl- 
ing to  take  up  their  long  look  into  the  east,  flower- 
boxes  were  putting  on  fresh  coats  of  green  paint, 
and  little  stacks  of  flower-pots  that  had  been  stand- 
ing in  the  window  corners  all  the  winter  long  were 
being  sorted  and  made  ready  for  their  new  gerani- 
ums. All  over  Paris  the  flower-markets  were  abloom. 
It  was  a  brand  new  Paris  day,  a  young  day  of  sighs, 
smiles  and  more  sighs,  the  sort  of  spring  day  to  draw 
all  the  inner-lights  right  up  to  the  eyes,  to  tempt 
feet  into  by-paths,  to  garb  any  wonder  or  mad  whim 
in  the  mask  of  a  possibility. 

To-morrow  Nathalie  was  to  have  her  audition,  and 
she  was  on  her  way  to  an  extra  hour  of  work.  Out 
in  the  soft  spring  air  she  felt  ready  to  confess  that 
she  was  glad  that  the  long  winter  of  steady  work 
was  at  an  end.  She  was  not  afraid  of  work,  nor  of 
herself,  nor  of  any  impresario  that  ever  made  earth 

916 


HARBOUR  AND  CITY  217 

tremble  with  his  power.  She  knew  that,  she'd  find 
the  right  manager  sooner  or  later.  Meantime  she'd 
enough  to  go  on  living.  As  she  came  out  of  the  Rue 
Falguiere  into  the  wide  boulevard,  the  warm  sunlight 
fell  upon  her,  and  she  lifted  her  small  dark  head  in 
a  pride  that  was  all  her  own,  a  pride  that  made  no 
compromises. 

As  she  climbed  up  on  a  bus-top  with  her  violin 
case,  she  smiled  whimsically  at  her  own  reflection  in 
a  tall  mirror  at  the  front  of  a  shop,  and  she  did 
make  concession,  for  the  fleeting  moment,  to  a  very 
human  little  wish  that  she  might  have  been  given  one 
grain  less  of  talent  and  one  grain  more  of  beauty. 
So  much  for  the  glowering  of  impresarios !  And  the 
spring  morning  trio  —  the  sigh,  the  smile  and  the 
other  sigh  —  flickered  across  her  face,  making  her 
prettier  than  she  knew. 

What  a  curious  life  she  was  leading  all  alone, 
among  the  hosts  of  people ;  —  or  was  the  curious  life 
leading  her? 

If  she  succeeded  to-morrow  she  would  soon  be  go- 
ing away;  would  be  making  the  journey  back,  with 
her  violin,  to  that  great,  versatile,  volatile,  success- 
mad  land  of  her  birth.  In  a  little  while  she  and 
Louisa  Garth  would  have  taken  up  their  opposite 
ways,  their  studio  in  the  Rue  Falguiere  would  have 
served  its  purpose  for  them,  would  be  dismantled 
and  swept  out  for  new  furniture  and  new  creatures. 
Under  no  circumstances  would  she  ever  again  share 


218  FAME-SEEKERS 

a  studio.  It  required,  no  doubt,  all  sorts  of  people 
to  make  a  world,  but  a  studio  was  too  small  a  world 
for  any  but  single-blessedness  1 

A  keen  smile  played  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked 
about  her,  appraising  her  fellow-passengers  on  the 
bus-top  and  the  people  swarming  in  the  street  below. 
It  was  all  vivacious  and  astir,  and  it  touched  her 
as  would  have  a  beautiful  work  of  art.  How  the 
sweet  air  made  her  mind  move!  It  was  splendid  just 
to  breathe,  to  be  a  part  of  it  all.  She  swept  her 
eyes  over  the  crowd,  searching,  and  she  smiled  to  see 
how  —  for  all  the  extravagance  of  light  and  colour 
and  action  —  there  was  not  a  single  face  that  bore 
distinction,  that  wore,  or  seemed  to  care  to  wear, 
the  look  of  success.  It  was  the  rabble,  the  busy, 
gay,  jostling  crowd,  and  if  they  had  troubles  they 
had  chosen  to  leave  them  locked  in  at  home.  All  at 
once  Nathalie  thrilled  to  imagine  playing  to  them; 
imagined  getting  to  her  feet  and  taking  out  her  violin, 
and  playing  up  there  on  the  bus-top,  till  they  should 
all  turn  towards  her  to  stop  and  listen.  She'd  love 
to  do  just  that!  She  folded  her  hands  on  the  end  of 
the  black  violin  case,  and  the  light  half  closed  her 
eyes,  the  swaying  of  the  bus  soothed  her.  She'd 
soon  be  going  home!  It  came  upon  her  with  a  sting- 
ing joy.  She  imagined  steaming,  on  a  big,  gleaming 
white  liner,  into  the  brilliant  harbour  she  knew  so 
well;  into  the  harbour  of  harbours,  where  the  sun- 
light flashes  upon  lively  waters,  where  the  sky-line, 


HARBOUR  AND  CITY  219 

the  city  life-line,  is  like  no  other  sky-line  all  the  wide 
world  over.  "  Oh,  I  want  to  go  home !  "  She  caught 
herself,  ready  to  speak  it  aloud,  to  tell  the  very  morn- 
ing all  about  it.  She'd  not  had  time  to  realise  it  till 
just  then,  when  the  year's  work  was  about  over. 
She  had  had  enough  of  Paris!  And  even  as  she 
owned  it,  fully,  ready  to  cry  it  out  and  cry  about  it 
like  some  small  girl,  the  impish  spring-day  trio,  the 
sigh,  the  smile,  and  the  other  sigh,  the  trio  that  lives 
best  in  Paris,  came  tripping  across  the  iridescence, 
and  Nathalie,  herself  smiling  and  sighing,  owned  that 
she'd  come  back  —  she'd  long  to  come  back  one  day, 
to  their  Paris,  just  as  she  now  wanted  to  go  home. 
She'd  come  back  from  her  harbour  of  harbours  to 
their  city  of  cities. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE    VICTOR 

THE  traditional  glimpse  of  spring  was  followed  by 
the  equally  traditional  return  of  winter,  and  Paris 
gave  in  glumly  to  its  modern  habit  of  a  freezing  April 
and  May.  Shivering  humanity  went  about  occupy- 
ing its  mind  that  it  might  forget  its  body.  Nath- 
alie's audition  had  been  achieved  with  distinction, 
and  she  had  gained  by  it  a  promising  engagement  for 
a  concert-tour  to  begin  in  New  York  in  the  coming 
November.  Keating's  picture  had  been  accepted  and 
was  excellently  hung.  He  had  gone  on  working  for 
Binnington,  as  being  "  excellently  hung "  is  no 
banker.  He  was  supposed  by  his  admirers  to  be 
off  in  the  country  happily  painting  spring  land- 
scape. Binnington  WHS  better  hung,  both  canvases 
on  the  line  and  in  the  same  room.  Louisa  had  spent 
all  of  April  in  a  certain  Convent-pension  at  Ver- 
sailles, where  fashionable  Parisians  go  to  rest  and  to 
stroll  becomingly  through  periods  of  idleness  in  gar- 
dens that  touch  the  Palace  Park.  She  was  back 
now  with  Nathalie  in  the  Rue  Falguiere,  and  was  ar- 
ranging to  spend  her  summer  in  Northern  Italy  with 
friends.  She  intended  to  spend  the  autumn  in  Si- 

9SO 


THE  VICTOR  221 

enna,  for  more  book-binding;  but  she  kept  that  to 
herself.  Burroughs'  pictures  had  been  accepted,  too, 
and  were  hung  well  enough,  as  they  had  been  for  the 
last  three  or  four  years. 

It  was  late  afternoon,  and  Burroughs  and  half  a 
dozen  Americans  were  in  the  billiard  room  of  a  pros- 
perous cafe  that  stands  in  the  angle  of  the  two 
Quarter  boulevards.  Burroughs  played  an  excellent 
game,  and  he  and  a  big-throated,  keen-eyed  young 
Westerner  were  finishing  a  close  match,  amusing  a 
circle  of  on-lookers,  and  themselves,  till  the  dinner 
hour  should  send  the  cues  to  their  rack.  A  young 
woman,  slim  and  small,  dressed  in  black,  very  high- 
heeled  "  American  "  shoes,  a  small,  round,  black  hat, 
with  two  long  garish  quills  upon  her  black  hair, 
and  gifted  with  the  staccato  manner  of  a  cricket, 
kept  —  as  right-minded  crickets  do  —  to  a  corner. 
A  young  man  in  a  chair  tipped  dramatically  against 
the  fireless  stove  was  making  the  corner  less  dull  for 
the  cricket. 

The  billiard-room  was  at  the  back  of  the  cafe,  and 
was  divided  from  it  by  a  wooden  partition  and  a  big 
green  baize  door.  The  windows  gave  upon  a  dull, 
cobbled,  peasant-faced  side-street.  The  room  was 
silent  except  for  the  chirping  of  the  Cricket,  the  rich 
click  of  the  ivory  balls,  and  the  occasional  jolting- 
by  of  the  milk-cart.  By  the  clatter  of  wheels  and 
milk-cans,  the  carts  seemed  to  pass  through  the  very 
room.  It  was  dark  because  of  the  fog,  the  room  was 


222  FAME-SEEKERS 

heavy  with  pipe  and  cigarette  smoke,  and  the  lights 
above  the  table  were  blurred  and  murky.  The  play- 
ers' eyes  were  narrowed  as  if  they  were  annoyed 
with  something  at  the  back  of  their  minds.  Every 
face  about  the  place,  except  the  two  in  the  corner, 
was  as  set  and  dull  as  the  weather  outside. 

Suddenly  the  green  baize  door  swung  back,  and  in 
a  silence  of  utter  amazement,  Nathalie  Corson  came 
inside  and  let  the  door  swing  to  behind  her.  Elo- 
quently the  other  two  legs  of  the  chair  in  the  corner 
clattered  to  the  floor,  and  the  Cricket  made  a  sound 
unknown  to  Crickets.  Nathalie  looked  too  tired  to 
care  for  any  mere  wave  of  amazement,  and  her  eyes 
sought  and  rested  upon  Burroughs'  with  an  absorp- 
tion that  left  the  others  out.  Though  the  billiard- 
room  was  one  of  the  places  that  the  American  girl 
students  do  not  invade,  Nathalie  showed  no  trace  of 
timidity.  It  was  more  than  clear  that  she  had  not 
come  there  to  amuse  herself. 

Burroughs  stared  back  at  her,  speechless  and  ap- 
prehensive. Cigarettes  fell,  pit-pat,  to  the  floor,  and 
everyone  moved  a  step  nearer.  The  Cricket,  left 
alone  in  her  corner,  clicked  her  tongue  against  her 
cheek,  dropped  into  the  deserted  chair,  and  finished 
her  cigarette  in  a  mood  of  peppery  inattention. 
Burroughs  found  his  voice  at  the  end  of  the  infinite 
moment.  "  What  on  earth  has  brought  you  here  ?  " 

"  I  came  to  find  you."  Nathalie  moved  nearer  to 
him,  and  the  excitement  of  her  voice  penetrated  every 


THE  VICTOR  223 

listening  on-looker.  She  waited,  tense  and  annoyed, 
while  an  inopportune  cart  clattered  by.  "  Bur- 
roughs," her  voice  broke,  "  they  have  elected  you ! 
They've  made  you  an  '  associate  ' !  You  are  the  only 
American  they  have  taken  in !  " 

Burroughs'  hand  closed  tightly  about  the  cushion 
of  the  billiard-table,  and  his  cue  clattered  to  the  floor. 
"  I've  —  they've  —  what  ?  "  he  echoed  stupidly  while 
the  circle  closed  in  a  little  closer  and  faces  began  to 
light  up. 

"  It's  perfectly  true,"  she  said.  "  I  met  a  man  in 
the  gardens  an  hour  ago,  and  he  had  just  lunched 
with  one  of  the  committee.  You'll  hear  it  officially 
in  a  few  days !  " 

The  frank  note  of  woe  in  Nathalie's  voice  as  she 
gave  Burroughs  his  news  —  news  that  invariably 
heralds  in  days  of  hilarity  and  toasting  —  puzzled 
the  circle  and  delayed  the  outburst. 

Burroughs  never  talked  much  of  either  himself  or 
his  work,  and  they  had  considered  him  as  a  possi- 
bility no  more  than  he  had  considered  himself.  It 
wanted  readjustment  to  take  Burroughs  profession- 
ally, though  no  one  had  ever  dreamed  of  taking  him 
lightly.  For  a  noisy  moment  they  swept  up  and 
surrounded  him.  Nathalie  stood  back,  waiting,  look- 
ing on,  a  cynical,  patient  smile  in  her  eyes.  Then, 
because  of  her,  with  hats  in  their  hands,  but  deviltry 
in  their  eyes,  giving  Burroughs  slaps  on  the  shoulder 
and  hand-grips  that  threatened  to  find  him  later  and 


FAME-SEEKERS 

do  by  him  as  the  occasion  demanded,  they  filed  out  of 
the  billiard-room  into  the  cafe,  the  hubbub  of  their 
news  coming  back  over  the  screen-partition. 

The  Cricket  sat  for  an  unconcerned  moment  on  the 
chair  in  the  stove-corner;  then  she  arose  indolently, 
took  Nathalie  in  across  her  cigarette,  as  if  she  had 
not  realised  before  that  she  was  there,  then  with 
her  consummate  art  of  impudence  she  went  out  after 
the  others,  rolling  a  billiard-ball  the  length  of  the 
table  as  she  sauntered  by. 

Nathalie  watched  her  exit  with  a  smile  of  appre- 
ciation, then  promptly  forgot  her,  after  her  usual 
rule. 

"  Poor  old  Keating !  "  Burroughs  looked  his  con- 
sternation. "  I  don't  want  the  thing !  I  never  even 
thought  of  it.  I'd  rather  not  have  sent  in  at  all !  " 

"  I  know,"  Nathalie  agreed  with  him.  "  It's  Keat- 
ing we've  got  to  think  of.  What  are  we  to  do? 
Something  must  be  done  at  once." 

"  First,  we  must  get  out  of  here,"  and  Burroughs 
took  his  hat  and  coat  off  the  hooks  along  the  wall. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Burroughs,"  said  Nathalie,  a  blush 
spreading  warmly  over  her  face.  She  laughed  a  lit- 
tle. "  I'm  afraid  I've  a  way  of  forgetting  myself, 
and  my  manners !  " 

"  Your  manners  and  yourself  take  very  good  care 
of  themselves,"  said  Burroughs,  his  own  colour  higher 
as  he  held  the  door  open  for  her  to  pass  out.  For 
Nathalie's  speaking  of  forgetting  herself  had  re- 


THE  VICTOR  225 

minded  Burroughs  of  himself,  and,  do  what  he  would 
to  remember  Keating,  he  was  stirred.  Success, 
whether  sought  after  or  gift-wise,  carries  its  inti- 
mate charm ! 

As  they  crossed  the  cafe  and  the  terrace  congratu- 
lations were  hurled  at  Burroughs  from  every  side. 
"  I'll  come  back,"  he  told  them  and  gave  the  gar9on 
a  conciliatory  order  for  drinks  all-around.  Then  he 
got  Nathalie  out  to  the  sidewalk. 

"  Burroughs,"  she  faced  him.  "  It's  awful  the  way 
I've  brought  you  the  news.  I  might  as  well  have 
given  you  an  invitation  to  a  funeral.  I'm  ashamed 
of  myself!" 

"  Do  you  know  how  it  happened  ?  "  asked  Bur- 
roughs. 

"  A  little,"  she  sighed.  "  It  began,  just  as  every- 
body thought  it  would,  between  Binnington  and  Keat- 
ing. The  vote  tied,  or  didn't  do  whatever  it  has  to 
do.  I  don't  know  their  system.  It  was  luncheon 
time,  and  the  committee  was  hungry!  Someone  pro- 
posed you,  and  they  rushed  you  through.  You  were 
the  dark  horse,  Burroughs !  I  know  what  it  will 
mean  to  you  when  you  have  had  time  to  think.  And 
I  am  glad  as  glad  can  be.  And  Louisa  will  be  glad. 
When  we  have  got  our  minds  at  rest  about  Keating, 
you  must  dine  with  us,  and  you  and  I  will  wear  our 
laurel-wreaths  and  be  as  conceited  as  we  please.  But, 
now?  What  are  we  to  do ?" 

"  We  must  get  at  Binnington,     One  thing  is  cer- 


226  FAME-SEEKERS 

tain,  Keating  can't  go  on  playing  valet.  It  has 
ceased  to  be  mere  masquerade,  after  this,  and  really 
must  end." 

"  I  know,"  said  Nathalie.  "  As  he  hasn't  taken 
them  by  storm,  he  may  have  to  try  again  and  again. 
Poor  Keating!" 

"  Come  and  dine  with  me,"  suggested  Burroughs. 
"  Will  Louisa  worry  about  you  if  you  don't  come 
home?  " 

Nathalie  gave  him  an  eloquent  glance.  "  Louisa 
and  I  are  under  contract  never  to  worry  about  one 
another  again !  It's  a  good  idea  to  dine  together, 
then  we'll  think  over  what  to  do." 

"  What  a  farce,"  groaned  Burroughs. 

Nathalie  looked  back  at  the  buzzing  cafe  terrace 
while  Burroughs  called  an  auto.  "  Couldn't  I  man- 
age about  all  this  ?  "  she  queried.  "  You  should  go 
back  and  have  your  fun.  They'll  mob  me  if  I  take 
you  away ! " 

"  My  fun  will  keep,"  said  Burroughs. 

The  taxi  rolled  up  by  the  curve,  Burroughs  helped 
Nathalie  in,  then  he  gave  the  address  and  told  the 
chauffeur  to  go  fast.  He  jumped  in  and  the  machine 
started.  They  were  followed  by  howls  of  disappoint- 
ment and  threat,  the  Cricket  gaily  leading  the  riot, 
her  satanic  quills  and  her  thin  white  hands  —  a  glass 
in  one  and  someone's  walking-stick  in  the  other  — 
lifted  among  the  men's  sticks  and  waving  soft  felt 
hats,  her  shrill  voice  high  above  the  clatter. 


THE  VICTOR  227 

"  Pm  so  sorry  to  take  you  away."  Nathalie 
looked  back  then  gave  him  a  penitent  glance. 

"  It  isn't  as  if  I'd  — *  been  born  yesterday,'  you 
know,  Nat!  We'll  have  a  glass  of  something  spar- 
kling all  by  ourselves  and  the  crepe  on  my  conscience 
won't  be  shown  to  the  crowd.  Crowds  jeer  crepe 
even  when  they  get  drunk,  my  dear  girl,  and  that 
crowd  back  there  has  made  up  its  mind  to  get  drunk." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

NATHALIE  CORSON 

NATHALIE  held  to  the  back  of  her  seat  on  the  top  of 
a  swaying  stage  and  peered  beneath  her  free  hand  at 
the  cuddling  grey  roofs  and  blunt  church-spire  of  a 
little  town  ahead.  It  was  the  town  to  which  Keating 
had  fled  in  order  that  he  might  get  away  from  himself 
and  his  friends. 

Nathalie  had  told  Louisa  that  she  would  be  across 
town  rather  late  with  some  friends,  but  to  Burroughs 
she  had  posted  a  note  just  before  leaving.  Both  the 
venture  into  Keating's  lair  and  the  note  to  Burroughs 
were  impulses.  In  large  things  Nathalie  was  wont  to 
plunge,  counting  on  her  common-sense  to  guide  her 
through  the  detail  as  it  came  along. 

This  was  her  letter  to  Burroughs : 

"Dear  Burroughs: 

"  I'm  off  to  the  county  for  an  hour's  chat  with  Keating. 
I  am  no  doubt  very  mad  to  go,  but,  wise  or  unwise,  the 
whim  has  me,  and  I'm  going!  I  shall  be  back  about 
nine  o'clock.  The  trains  conspire  beautifully  with  my 
whim. 

"  Come  in  to  tea  to-morrow,  if  you  like.     I  engaged 


NATHALIE  CORSON  229 

my  passage  home  this  morning  for  the  last  of  the  month. 
"  As  ever, 

"  NATHALIE." 


The  old  yellow  stage-coach  rolled  along  a  hard, 
straight  road  right  into  the  west,  and  it  passed  all 
the  way  between  fields  swept  with  the  rich  greens  of 
young  grain.  The  country  rolled  gently  to  the  clear 
summer  sky,  and  here  and  there  an  orchard  or  a 
walled  and  gabled  farm  added  the  deeper  note  of 
thrift.  Nathalie  drank  in  the  air,  washing  away 
gratefully  the  dry  taste  of  the  city  in  summer.  She 
thought  there  must  have  been  a  shower,  the  air  was  so 
fresh  and  sweet.  The  sky  was  cloudless. 

With  the  usual  snapping  of  the  whip,  the  horses 
plunged  into  their  smart  entrance  into  the  village 
street,  children,  dogs,  ducks  and  chickens  scattering 
and  adding  to  the  dramatic  din.  They  drew  up  with 
a  perilous  swerve  at  the  curb  of  the  Inn,  and  Nath- 
alie, the  sole  passenger,  climbed  down.  Madame 
Polidore,  "  La  Patronne,"  met  her  at  the  door  of  the 
little  bar-billiard-room,  considering  her  demand  for 
Keating's  whereabouts  with  a  slow  smouldering  of 
eye  that  drove  the  colour  into  Nathalie's  cheeks. 
Keating  was  stopping  there;  had,  in  fact,  engaged 
one  of  the  most  desirable  rooms  for  the  entire  sea- 
son. At  the  moment  he  had  gone  for  a  walk  in  the 
woods.  Madame  could  not  not  say  at  what  hour  he 
would  come  in,  but  she  could,  and  would,  point  the 


230  FAME  SEEKERS 

way  to  the  woods.  "  He  is  alone?  "  Nathalie  asked 
with  as  much  unconcern  as  she  could  manage.  "  For 
the  present  he  is  quite  alone,  Mademoiselle !  "  and  the 
wicked  amusement  in  the  Inn-keeper's  wise  eyes  and 
smooth  voice  stirred  Nathalie's  fury.  But  she  knew 
the  futility  of  hoping  that  a  Madam  Polidore  would 
ever  give  over  taking  things  for  granted. 

As  Nathalie  walked  away  from  the  Inn,  she  won- 
dered indignantly  at  what  age  she  might  hope  to 
have  got  over  her  guiltless  blushing,  and  she  felt, 
from  her  ears  to  her  heels,  the  worldly  flourish  of  La 
Patronne's  apron  as  she  crossed  her  awninged  ter- 
race on  her  way  back  to  the  bar,  where  she  would, 
certainly,  talk  her  over  with  the  hatchet-faced  girl 
who  tended  the  bar  and  made  cotton  crochet-lace  be- 
tween other  people's  drinks. 

Nathalie  threaded  her  way  down  the  winding  little 
street,  and  from  nearly  every  window  that  she  passed 
eyes  peered  out  at  her,  sometimes  child's  eyes,  but 
oftener  old  eyes  —  incredibly  old  and  wise  eyes,  dis- 
quieting points  of  light  burning  on  in  the  dark,  low- 
roofed  peasant  rooms.  At  the  end  of  the  street  the 
path  went  on  its  way  as  a  lane,  first  through  a 
scraggy,  neglected  group  of  old  apple  trees,  then  be- 
tween grain  fields.  Ahead  lay  the  woods;  a  soft, 
thrilling  line  of  tender  greys  and  greens,  as  motion- 
less as  the  sky,  birds  holding  sway  above  and  below. 
The  sun  had  crossed  to  the  west,  but  the  evening 
colour  had  not  yet  begun. 


NATHALIE  CORSON  231 

As  Nathalie's  gloveless,  vagrant  hands  touched  the 
bending  grain  and  the  light  air  moved  over  her  face, 
she  realised  what  getting  away  from  a  city  into  the 
country  must  mean  to  a  man  like  Keating.  His  had 
been,  after  aH,  a  compensating  retreat.  First,  a 
farmer  boy  had  run  away  from  his  prairies  to  the 
city,  and  now  a  painter,  a  man,  had  run  away  to  the 
country,  to  the  sophisticated  fields  and  woods  and 
skies  and  inn  of  the  gay-eyed  Madame  Polidore !  She 
smiled  to  think  how  it  might  all  have  been  another 
thing  if  circumstances  had  forced  his  going  back  to 
his  home  instead  of  here.  Madame  Polidore  made 
all  things  easy,  took  genius  for  granted  along  with 
other  things,  but  Keating's  toiling,  hard-handed, 
silent  old  father  would  have  waited  on  to  be  con- 
vinced. 

What  a  beautiful  place !  She  looked  about  her 
as  she  entered  the  path  into  the  wood,  and  she 
stepped  softly.  The  small  butterfly-leaves  of  the 
birches  and  the  deeper  green  of  the  beech  and  oak, 
the  grey  and  purple  branches,  the  clear,  quiet  sky, 
the  deep  green  moss  and  the  fallen  leaves  of  the  au- 
tumn before,  the  mottled  trunks  of  the  older  trees, 
the  flickering  sun-spots,  like  a  spangled  veil  over  it 
all,  enchanted  her.  It  was  a  world  apart,  a  world  of 
small  bird-notes  and  fine  growing  things.  Nathalie 
stooped  to  wonder  over  the  ferns,  their  autumn 
glory  all  curled  into  tiny  spirals  very  little  taller 
than  the  starry  moss.  Just  before  her  the  path 


232  FAME-SEEKERS 

sank  downward  through  a  shimmering  forest  of 
young  birches,  and  through  their  branches  and  silver- 
lined  leaves  she  could  see  a  valley  with  roofs  and  a 
church-spire,  and  cattle  grazing,  all  in  sunlight. 
There  was  a  cross-path,  too,  that  followed  the  crest 
of  the  hill,  wider  and  more  trodden  than  the  path 
through  the  birches.  She  wondered  which  path  Keat- 
ing would  have  chosen,  given  that  he  were  walking 
merely  to  amuse  himself;  but  nearly  every  thought, 
and  every  moment,  were  broken  by  discoveries  of  frail 
white  and  yellow  violets  half-hidden  in  the  moss  and 
brown  leaves.  And  all  the  time  at  the  back  of  Nath- 
alie's mind  was  a  dread  which  she  would  not  admit,  a 
dread  that  Keating  might  not  be  glad  to  see  her. 

Keating  came  at  last,  up  the  hill  through  the 
birches,  and  singing  at  the  top  of  his  lungs : 

"Oh,  I  went  down  South, 

For  to  see  my  Sal, 
Singin'     .     .     . 

Polly — wolly — doodle — 
Dolly— day!" 

Nathalie  heard  him  first  away  down  the  valley, 
and  the  commotion  the  song  made  among  the  birds 
as  he  came  along  made  her  laugh  aloud. 

At  sight  of  her  Keating  stood,  and  a  tremendous 
note  broke  in  two.  After  a  moment  of  amazement, 
he  hurried  to  her  with  hat  off  and  hand  outstretched. 
The  worry  slipped  away  from  Nathalie's  mind,  and 


NATHALIE  CORSON  233 

her  eyes  glowed  as  she  met  him.  Keating  had  never 
yet  failed  to  be  glad  to  see  her ! 

"  Come  after  me  again  ?  "  He  laughed  down  upon 
her. 

"  Yes ! "  she  admitted  fully  with  an  answering 
laugh,  but  the  laugh  gave  way  to  a  puzzled  smile, 
and  the  smile  faded  and  left  her  face  wholly  mysti- 
fied. "  You  do  look  well,  Keating ! "  she  said,  ab- 
sorbing him.  "  The  country  agrees  with  you." 
There  was  something  new  upon  the  man,  an  inde- 
pendence, a  touch  of  reserve,  even  when  he  was  noisy 
or  laughing,  that  usually  comes  after  a  taste  of  suc- 
cess. The  very  quality  he  had  always  lacked  seemed 
all  at  once  to  have  caught  up  with  him ;  or  was  it  that 
he  was  at  home  out  here  in  the  woods  and  fields? 

"  The  country?  Yes,"  he  cast  a  gleam  of  amuse- 
ment to  her  out  of  his  eyes.  "  Partly  the  country, 
no  doubt.  You  see,  I've  had  a  fall  from  a  high  place 
and  hit  rock  bottom.  Couldn't  fall  any  lower,  and 
it  didn't  quite  shake  the  life  out  of  me,  so  things  have 
decided  to  look  up.  I've  actually  had  a  streak  of 
luck!" 

"  Luck?  "  Nathalie  queried. 

"  Might  as  well  tell  the  end  first,"  said  Keating, 
with  the  wonder  of  the  thing  still  in  his  voice.  "  I'm 
to  do  portraits  —  full-lengthers,  too,  Nathalie  —  of 
Binnington's  mother  and  sister,  in  the  autumn !  " 

"  How  perfectly  fine !  "  said  Nathalie,  with  a  deep, 
glad  breath. 


284  FAME-SEEKERS 

"  We  have  turned  out  to  be  very  good  friends, 
Binnington  and  I,"  he  went  on,  the  pride  as  frank  as 
it  would  have  been  in  a  boy's  voice.  "  I  don't  like 
the  way  he  paints,  but  neither  does  he,  so  it's  no  use 
bothering  over  that.  The  master  and  the  man  have 
hit  it  off!  You  see,  we  failed  together,  so  we  are 
going  to  pick  up  and  get  over  it  together.  He  has 
tact!  "  and  Keating  looked  around  at  her  with  droll 
slowness.  "  He  has  handled  me !  He's  got  a  new 
idea  into  my  block-of-a-head  to  begin  with.  You, 
Nathalie,  made  a  noble  effort  to  drive  in  the  same 
idea  one  day  when  you  warned  me  that  I  had  no  more 
right  to  starve  a  work  of  art  than  I  had  to  starve  a 
baby."  He  laughed  a  little,  watching  her.  "  You 
looked  like  a  little  exclamation  point  when  you  said 
it,  and,  of  course,  I  simply  turned  mule.  But  I  see 
now,  thanks  to  Binnington's  pounding  at  me,  that  a 
man  has  no  business  to  go  down,  that  a  man  with  an 
art  has  no  right  to  go  trench-digging  and  serving. 
I've  got  it  through  my  head  that  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  borrowing  honestly.  I'm  glad,  though,"  he  hesi- 
tated seriously,  "  that  I've  only  just  come  to  see  it. 
I  can  make  good  now,  right  along.  I've  begun  my 
new  career  by  accepting  the  money  for  one  of  the 
portraits  in  advance.  A  cool  thousand  dollars ! " 
His  voice  sank  respectfully  at  the  naming  of  the 
sum.  "  I'll  have  a  glorious  summer,  of  air,  space, 
thinking  and  working,  and  books ;  then  I'll  go  back 
to  Paris  in  October  like  new.  Binnington  is  going 


NATHALIE  CORSON  235 

to  take  his  family  to  the  sea-shore ;  then  he's  coming 
down  here  for  a  month  or  two.  He's  had  a  lesson, 
too,  and,"  he  laughed,  "  thinks  of  giving  up  politics 
and  going  in  for  painting !  There's  a  studio  to  let  in 
the  village,  an  old  made-over  stable.  He  says  that 
nearly  any  known  French  village  can  produce  a  stu- 
dio. We'll  share  it  and  live  at  the  Inn.  I  left  him 
the  key  of  my  place  in  town,  and  he's  painting  some- 
thing over  there  to  try  the  light."  Keating's  eyes 
twinkled.  "  He'll  never  be  able  to  breathe  in  his  own 
place  again.  By  the  time  Binnington  and  I  have 
finished  with  one  another,  I  believe  we'll  both  have 
turned  out  fairly  well !  "  Keating  leaned  against  a 
tree,  his  arms  folded  in  their  favourite  pose,  and  he 
took  Nathalie  in  through  the  smoke  of  his  pipe. 
"  Your  brown  clothes  and  shoes  and  hat  —  and  eyes, 
are  very  becoming  to  the  trees,"  he  remarked. 
"  Did  Binnington  send  you  out  here  ?  " 

"  Not  he !  "  Nathalie  laughed.  "  I  got  your  ad- 
dress by  telling  him  I  wanted  to  write  you.  Even 
Burroughs  didn't  know.  I  just  thought  of  coming, 
—  and  came." 

"  Have  you  seen  Burroughs  ?  " 

"  Of  course.     Last  night." 

"  I  hope  he'H  come  down  a  while.  He  was  more 
cut  up  than  I  was  over  his  success.  You  don't  think 
he  imagines  that  I  feel  it,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No.  Will  Burroughs  has  a  grown-up  imagina- 
tion. He's  the  squarest  ever." 


236  FAME-SEEKERS 

"  I  passed  him  in  a  cab  on  my  way  down  to  the 
station.  I  was  late,  and  hadn't  time  to  stop.  He 
didn't  see  me  because  he  isn't  in  the  habit  of  looking 
for  me  in  passing  cabs ! "  Keating  gazed  humor- 
ously through  his  pipe  smoke.  He  moved  to  a  fallen 
tree  and  sat  upon  it,  and  Nathalie  perched  among  the 
branches  on  the  other  end,  her  small  feet  clear  of  the 
ground.  "  Did  you  come  down  for  anything  in  par- 
ticular? "  asked  Keating. 

"  Just  to  say  good-bye,"  said  Nathalie.  "  I'm 
sailing  the  last  day  of  the  month.  I  shall  be  gone 
perhaps  a  whole  year." 

"  I  shall  miss  you  next  winter,"  said  Keating 
simply. 

"  I  must  go  and  conquer  my  native  land,"  Nathalie 
said  largely. 

Keating  considered  her.  "  You  look  so  darned 
little  —just  a  kid,"  he  laughed.  "  Sort  of  a  '  Little 
me,  and  my  Big  Fiddle ! '  " 

"  Just  that !  "  Nathalie  agreed  with  him. 

Upon  their  two  fine  irregular  faces,  there  in  the 
veiled  forest  light,  shone  the  reserve,  the  wistfulness, 
the  wise-gaiety  of  people  idling,  but  people  who  have 
fought  or  paid  for  every  inch  of  their  way.  Wisdom 
went  even  farther,  for  there  was  a  potency  in  the 
moment  from  which  they  knew  enough  to  look  away. 
And  so,  these  two,  who  might  have  gained  —  no  one 
knows  what  —  of  happiness  by  being  everything  to 
one  another,  spent  their  one  summer  afternoon  in  the 


NATHALIE  CORSON  237 

woods  in  talk  about  luck  and  success,  about  hope  and 
work. 

An  hour  later  Nathalie  stood  by  Keating  at  the 
curb  of  the  Inn  terrace.  The  old  yellow  stage  was 
drawn  up  ready  to  go  back  to  the  station.  Nathalie 
faced  Keating,  suddenly  resolute.  Saying  good-bye 
between  two  people  to  whom  the  year  has  meant 
about  everything,  two  people  so  very  far  from  home, 
one  of  them  going  home,  is  always  trying,  always 
wants  some  whistling  in  the  dark.  The  thought 
lurks  more  over  the  lost  and  given  up  other  days 
than  work-days.  They  know  that  in  gaining  their 
worlds  they  have  lost  their  islands. 

"  Keating,"  she  said  gently,  "  I  want  to  say,  just 
once  and  for  all,  that  I'm  sorry  as  can  be  for  the  silly 
part  I  played  in  your  uncomfortable  winter.  My 
only  consolation  is  so  threadbare!  I  did  —  mean 
well!" 

*'  I  needed  cauterising,"  Keating  smiled  gravely. 

"  Possibly,"  agreed  Nathalie.  "  But  that  isn't  my 
trade,  is  it  ?  I  only  —  meddled !  " 

Keating  straightened  his  shoulders.  "  We  got  a 
good  picture  on  the  line  out  of  it.  I  believe  it  has 
paid.  And  we  have  had  a  glorious  afternoon! 
Haven't  we?  " 

"  We  have,"  she  answered  sincerely,  her  eyes  rest- 
ing on  the  little  tubbed  shrub  that  stood  by  the  awn- 
ing-pole at  his  back.  "  Keating,  shall  you  try  to 
see  Louisa  before  she  goes  away?  " 


238  FAME-SEEKERS 

"  No,"  said  Keating  firmly.  "  There  is  no  earthly 
reason  why  I  should  see  her." 

Nathalie  considered  him,  and  a  gleam  of  amuse- 
ment shot  across  her  brown  eyes.  "  I  don't  know 
that  I  referred  particularly  to  earthly  reasons." 

Keating  flushed,  then  laughed.  "  Earthly  reasons 
are  the  safest  ones  for  me,  aren't  they  ?  " 

"  You  really  think  so  ?  "  She  smiled  her  disbelief. 
"  I  wonder  why  it  is  that  when  one  has  to  face  a 
good-bye  one  always  lapses  into  —  twaddle !  " 

"  When  is  Miss  Garth  going?  " 

Nathalie  spread  her  hands.  "  I  don't  exactly 
know.  Louisa  doesn't  exactly  know.  And,"  she 
laughed  with  a  touch  of  light  malice,  "  she  doesn't  ex- 
actly care,  Keating  —  just  so  it  is  away!  " 

"  America  ?  " 

"  No.  That  much  she  knows.  She  doesn't  want 
to  go  back.  Italy  for  the  summer,  and  back  to  Paris 
next  winter.  But  not  to  the  Rue  Falguiere!  Her 
plans  are  vague,  as  vague  as  she." 

"  You  mean  what  she  says  of  them  is  vague?  " 

Nathalie  shot  him  a  puzzled  look;  then  she  gave 
him  a  broad,  solicitous  smile.  "  Keating,  you  get  on 
well,  always,  with  women,  but  the  beautiful  reason  is 
that  you  don't  know  them  one  little  bit." 

"  Is  that  more  twaddle,  Nathalie  ?  " 

The  driver  swung  himself  to  the  box,  clicked  his 
watch  suggestively  and  gathered  up  the  reins.  Keat- 
ing helped  Nathalie  up  the  steep  steps  to  the  top  of 


NATHALIE  CORSON  239 

the  stage  again,  and  she  bent  down  and  gave  him  her 
hand.  "  Do  you  know,"  she  smiled  wistfully,  look- 
ing at  him  and  about  him,  "  that  whatever  I  have  to 
remember  of  France  will  always  be  —  in  one  corner 
or  another  —  associated  with  the  image  of  little 
shrubs  in  green  tubs.  What  a  green  they  paint 
them!" 

Keating  nodded.  "Even  the  furniture  factories 
*  paint  well '  in  France !  Don't  go  and  forget  me 
just  because  you  get  your  public  by  the  ears  over 
there.  You  and  your  fiddle !  " 

"  I  shan't  be  able  to  forget  you.     You  are  going 
to  make  a  bit  of  noise  in  the  world  yourself !  " 
"  Good-bye ! " 
"Good-bye!" 

As  they  rounded  the  curve  in  the  village  street  — 
youngsters,  dogs,  chickens  and  ducks  entering  again 
into  their  scene  —  Keating  waved  his  hat,  and  Na- 
thalie, kneeling  on  the  seat,  waved  her  hand.  And 
at  Keating's  back,  the  row  of  shrubs  in  their  green 
tubs,  Madame,  the  chef,  and  an  absorbent  group  of 
bonnes  ruminated  over  Nathalie's  early  departure 
with  un-moral  regret.  She  was  an  American,  and 
Americans  are  all  so  prosperous ! 

Nathalie  recrossed  the  fields,  dazed  and  quieted. 
She  had  had  her  afternoon.  She  lost  her  sense  of 
time,  and  was  startled  to  realise  the  little  station 
again,  though  her  eyes  must  have  been  upon  it  for 
the  last  mile  or  two. 


240  FAME  SEEKERS 

The  train  from  Paris  was  due  five  minutes  before 
her  train  was  scheduled  to  arrive.  She  paced  the 
long  platform,  breathing  in  a  store  of  the  sweet  coun- 
try air  to  take  back  to  the  dusty  city  with  her.  A 
red  and  purple  sunset  was  going  on  over  and  above 
the  quiet  rolling  fields,  and  her  eyes  followed  the  road 
back  across  the  land  as  she  thought  of  her  perfect 
afternoon.  She  was  glad  that  she  had  come!  It 
was  splendid  to  carry  away  the  thought  of  Keating, 
happy  and  serene,  in  the  quiet  of  the  country  and  the 
woods.  Her  eyes  gave  out  a  wealth  of  kindness  to 
everything  they  shone  upon,  from  weeds  pushing 
through  the  cracked  boards  to  the  train-men  stirring 
about.  The  bell  jangled,  the  crossing-gates  closed, 
and  she  thrilled  to  sense  —  as  if  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  it  is  always  so  keen  —  the  marvel  of  trains 
coming  and  going  across  the  country  fields,  passing 
to  and  from  Paris.  She  watched  the  curve  in  the 
track  as  the  engine  came  thundering  in,  blinding  and 
deafening  her  with  its  noise  and  smoke,  giving  her 
glory  in  her  very  smallness. 

The  door  of  a  third-class  compartment  swung 
open,  and  a  young  woman,  with  dark,  rough  hair, 
small  hoop  ear-rings,  and  a  very  new  straw  hat, 
leaned  out  and  looked  at  the  name  on  the  station, 
dove  back,  then  emerged  borne  down  with  badly-tied 
bundles  and  boxes  in  both  her  arms. 

"  Bon  jour,  Mademoiselle!"  and  the  driver  of  the 
old  yellow  stage  rushed  to  help  her, 


NATHALIE  CORSON 

Nathalie,  all  the  light  of  kindness  gone  out  of  her 
face,  slipped  back  into  the  sordid  little  waiting-room. 
Through  the  murky,  square-paned  windows  she 
watched  the  two  of  them,  joking  over  the  bundles  as 
they  put  them  into  the  stage.  Then  Clothilde 
climbed  up  on  top,  and  the  coachman  leaned  against 
the  steps  to  chat  with  her  till  the  train  for  Paris 
should  have  come  and  gone.  As  they  passed  the 
open  door  of  the  waiting-room  Nathalie  had  seen  that 
one  of  her  bundles  was  tied  up  with  an  old  grey  shawl, 
and  she  heard  the  driver  saying  to  the  girl :  "  But 
Monsieur  Keating  did  not  expect  you  to  arrive  till 
eight  o'clock.  I  had  instructions  —  " 

The  Paris  train  rushed  in,  and  mechanically  Na- 
thalie climbed  on  board.  She  sat  far  back  in  a  cor- 
ner, her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  small  framed  map  above 
the  opposite  seat,  her  mind  running  wild.  "  Clothilde 
again !  The  steerage  girl.  But,  she  posed  for  Keat- 
ing ;  she  had  come  down  to  pose  for  him !  All  paint- 
ers take  a  model  to  the  country.  They  must!  Oh, 
men's  lives !  We  are  fools,  fools,  fools,  to  know  too 
much  about  them !  " 

Alone  in  the  corner  of  the  swaying  train,  blind  to 
the  fields  and  trees  and  sky,  Nathalie  went  through 
her  hard  hour  of  self-discovery.  When  the  hour  was 
by  she  realised  —  confession  upon  confession !  — 
that  till  that  moment  she  had  not  actually  put  life 
aside  and  taken  up  her  career,  that,  at  the  back  of 
her  mind,  even  through  all  the  hard  work,  had  lurked 


242  FAME  SEEKERS 

a  possibility,  a  hope  of  release!  It  was  not  just  the 
incident  of  that  brainless  girl  in  her  new  hat  that 
so  flaunted  Keating's  new  prosperity.  She  could 
have  put  that  away,  out  of  her  thoughts,  where  it  be- 
longed. It  was  Keating's  silence  during  the  long 
afternoon  in  the  woods !  She  had  to  admit  that  he 
had  not  felt  it  as  their  cross-roads,  that  no  hope  to 
match  hers  had  lurked  at  the  back  of  his  mind.  Al- 
ways disappointed!  Well,  she'd  work!  With  lips 
apart  and  wide  eyes,  alone  in  the  compartment  of  the 
rushing  train,  she  knew  her  loneliness.  What  was 
this  creature  that  life  was  forcing  her  to  be  ?  A  pro- 
fessional woman ! 

"Hello,  Nat!"  It  was  Burroughs,  waiting  for 
her  on  the  platform  in  the  great  Paris  station.  "  I 
got  your  note  just  as  I  was  going  out  to  dinner,  so 
I  came  down  and  got  an  aperatif  across  the  street  to 
kill  time  till  your  train  came  in.  Come  and  dine 
with  me,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  I  will !  "  she  smiled  gratefully  upon  him.  "  How 
good  of  you  to  come  like  this!  Is  there  time,"  she 
hesitated,  "to  go  across  town  for  our  dinner?  Be- 
cause," she  smiled,  "  it  will  save  me  a  fib  if  we  can." 

"  There's  always  time  for  everything  if  one  can  but 
put  aside  the  childish  recognition  of  mere  daylight 
and  darkness,"  said  Burroughs  largely. 

"  But,  am  I  all  right  ?  "  she  glanced  down  at  her 
dress.  "  You  know  my  impresario's  in  town,  and  — 
if  I  met  him,  dining  like  this  ?  " 


NATHALIE  CORSON  243 

"  Damn  your  impresario  —  all  impresarios !  "  said 
Burroughs  profoundly. 

"  Oh,"  she  looked  into  his  eyes,  "  thank  you  for 
saying  it ! " 

Then  they  rolled  away  into  Paris,  in  a  taxi-auto. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

LOUISA  GARTH 

LOUISA,  tired  but  driven  by  excitement  into  a  feverish 
energy,  climbed  into  the  old  stage  which  was  drawn 
up  back  of  the  railway  station  in  the  shade  of  a  big 
drooping  elm.  It  was  a  yellow,  side-seated  stage, 
that  had  given  its  youth,  and  would  give  what  was 
left  of  its  creaking  and  complaining  age,  to  doing 
country  service  over  the  hill-lands  dotted  with  sum- 
mer homes  that  lie  around  any  Connecticut  country 
town.  She  tossed  her  travelling-coat  and  her  bag 
upon  one  seat,  then  made  herself  as  comfortable  as 
possible  in  the  corner  of  the  other,  for  she  had  a  long 
hour's  ride  before  her.  Her  coat  fell  into  a  look  and 
a  line  so  like  herself  that  in  a  tempest  of  impatience 
she  bent  forward,  shook  it,  then  let  it  lie  in  a  punished 
heap,  neck  down  and  sleeves  hanging. 

They  jogged  out  of  the  town  and  into  the  country, 
the  gold  of  sunlight  and  the  gentle  blue  of  shadow 
making  Louisa  catch  her  breath  as  the  memory  of  its 
quiet  beauty  stirred  through  her.  Nothing  had 
changed :  a  new  roof  here  and  there,  perhaps,  and  a 
deepened  and  enriched  sense  of  the  thrift  and  peace 
of  farm-land  touching  farm-land,  but  it  was  almost 

•M 


LOUISA  GARTH  245 

as  if  she'd  been  there  but  yesterday.  And  the  gen- 
tleness and  quietness  of  it  hurt  her  incredibly.  Why 
had  she  ever  wanted  to  go  away? 

And  a  strange  home-coming  she  had  made  for  her- 
self;  uninvited,  unexpected,  and  jogging  out,  wilfully, 
in  this  shabby  old  stage.  She  gave  it  all  up  with  a 
sigh:  she  only  knew  that  she  was  tired  of  herself, 
tired  even  more  of  all  the  world  she'd  gone  away  from 
Connecticut  to  live  in.  Everything  had  gone  flat, 
everything;  and  she  had  come  back  blindly,  desper- 
ately, not  daring  to  think  what  the  coming  might  be. 

One  thingi  she  knew  and  did  not  allow  her  doubts  to 
touch  or  tarnish:  she'd  find  Gleason  unchanged. 
He'd  be  —  deepened,  perhaps,  like  these  hills  he  lived 
among.  He  had  never  changed,  since  she  had  first 
known  him.  Dear  old  Billy,  with  his  frank  "  Of 
course,  I  don't  know  anything  about  art  and  all 
that."  How  glad  she  was  that  he  did  not !  She  was 
so  weary  of  the  people  who  knew  all  about  every- 
thing. 

He  would  find  her  changed,  though,  and  she 
dreaded  that.  She  wondered  if  it  had  been  hard  for 
Gleason  to  adjust  himself  to  life  after  her  sister's 
death.  He  had  written  her  regularly  during  the  two 
years  since  she  had  gone  away,  but  for  a  long  time 
they  had  not  talked  much  of  Grace,  after  life's  sav- 
ing way  of  looking  forward.  She  felt  the  loss  of  her 
sister  through  the  stirring  touch  of  association,  of 
going  over  the  ground  they  had  both  known  well,  as 


246  FAME  SEEKERS 

she  had  scarcely  felt  it  before,  and  she  realised  what 
it  must  mean  to  Gleason,  how  lonely  he  must  have 
been,  living  on  there  by  himself,  the  very  air  breath- 
ing memories  to  him.  The  sunlight  danced  through 
a  mist  for  a  moment,  and  she  smiled  at  herself  for 
the  new  sentimentality  the  place  was  putting  upon 
her.  It  was  a  wistful  smile  enough.  Then,  utterly 
stilled,  she  had  her  first  glimpse  from  the  crest  of  a 
hill  of  the  grey  gables  and  red  chimneys  in  the  grove 
of  tall  trees. 

As  they  rattled  down  the  hill,  it  came  over  her  that 
her  visit  might  be  untimely,  that  Gleason  might  have 
his  house  full  of  guests.  He  had  used  to  threaten  to 
fill  it  up  with  "  other  lonely  men  "  when  Grace  went 
away,  even  for  a  few  days ! 

They  rumbled  over  the  last  of  the  white-railed 
bridges,  the  rushes  stirring  and  the  brook  rippling, 
as  they  always  did  at  a  step  upon  the  bridge.  From 
there  the  road  sloped  gently  upwards  to  the  grove. 
The  horse  was  tired,  and  he  crept  over  the  last  inches, 
and  every  slow  jogging  step  ahead  tortured  Louisa 
and  added  to  the  timidity  that,  at  sight  of  the  gate 
in  the  grove,  fairly  overwhelmed  her.  She  could 
still  go  back !  But  the  driver  would  think  her  mad, 
and  she  was  almost  too  tired  to  endure  the  thought 
of  driving  again  over  the  dusty  way. 

"  You  need  not  drive  in,  I'll  walk  from  the  gate," 
she  told  the  man  absently.  Then  she  paid  him  and 
gave  him  a  fee  that  straightened  his  back  and  lifted 


LOUISA  GARTH  247 

the  hat  off  his  dull  head.  She  took  her  coat  and  bag 
and  went  in  through  the  small  gate  by  the  side  of  the 
wide  one  across  the  drive.  She  watched  the  stage 
drive  away  with  a  growing  sense  of  aloneness.  She 
had  burnt  her  bridges :  there  was  nothing  to  do  now 
but  to  go  on  to  the  house  and  ask  to  be  taken  in. 

Because  of  a  turn  in  the  drive  through  the  grove 
she  could  not  see  the  house,  nor  could  she  be  seen. 
Just  at  the  turn  there  was  a  stone  bench  against  a 
great  tree,  and  she  went  to  it,  to  rest,  to  think,  to 
argue  with  her  drooping  courage. 

What  perfect  silence  and  peace !  A  long  hot  Au- 
gust had  turned  the  leaves  early  and  loosened  their 
stems,  and  they  were  falling,  slowly  and  infrequently, 
gold  and  copper  flakes  across  the  silvery  trees.  The 
moss  they  fell  upon  was  thick  and  green,  an  almost 
unearthly  green  in  the  shadowy  light.  The  sun  was 
going  down.  She  could  not  stay  there  till  dark. 
She  must  go  on ! 

The  house,  with  its  lawn  and  flower-beds,  its  broad 
awninged  verandah,  screened  doors  and  windows  and 
low  steps,  came  upon  her,  framed  in  the  trees  and 
leaves  at  the  end  of  the  drive.  She  choked  and  her 
eyes  filled  again.  How  had  she  dared  to  deliberately 
turn  away  from  all  of  this  to  go  into  a  world  that 
had  wanted  her  not  at  all ! 

But  the  place  wore  a  new  look,  a  strange  look. 
She  had  not  felt  it  in  the  grove,  but  here  in  the  gar- 
den —  the  flowers  were  there,  the  same  sorts  of  gar- 


248  FAME  SEEKERS 

den  flowers  there  had  always  been ;  but  everything 
had  gone  a  little  wild,  the  grass  had  not  been  cut  for 
some  time,  there  were  weeds  in  the  brick  paths,  and 
weather  had  streaked  the  awnings.  Louisa  bent  over 
the  flowers  to  keep  the  sharp  moment  away,  and, 
without  thinking,  she  broke  off  a  sprig  of  heliotrope. 
Would  she  find  Gleason  like  the  garden  and  the  rest  ? 
He  had  always  seemed  so  self-reliant,  so  orderly. 
Had  all  of  that  been  due  to  Grace,  or  did  he  really 
like  things  better,  running  wild?  And  she  stopped 
again  and  again,  pulling  a  weed  out  of  the  walk, 
touching  the  flowers,  temporising,  pretending  that 
all  of  these  things  mattered,  but  watching,  watching 
for  a  sign  of  life. 

She  did  not  see  Gleason  till  she  had  arrived  at  the 
verandah  steps.  He  was  there,  deep  in  an  arm-chair, 
his  hands  back  of  his  head,  surrounded  by  newspa- 
pers, and,  on  a  table  beside  him,  his  hat  and  a  letter. 
She  knew  at  a  glance  that  it  was  her  letter,  and  the 
last  one  that  she  had  written  him.  His  back  was 
turned  towards  the  light  and  towards  her. 

And  when  she  saw  him  there  before  her,  all  the 
timidity  slipped  away,  and  with  no  more  thought  of 
herself  she  went  straight  to  him.  "  You  aren't  very 
cordial,  Billy ! " 

Gleason  slowly  dropped  his  hands  and  turned  his 
head,  then  he  peered  at  her  unbelievingly.  "  Is  it 
you?" 

She  held  out  her  hand.     "  See  if  it  isn't !  " 


LOUISA  GARTH  249 

His  hands  closed  about  hers.  "  It's  real,"  he 
agreed.  "  You  know,"  he  took  her  in  incredulously, 
"  you  were  playing  with  a  piece  of  that  flower  the  last 
day  we  talked  together  here." 

She  looked  down  at  the  heliotrope  in  her  free  hand. 
"  And  very  nice  of  you  to  remember  it,"  she  glanced 
at  him.  "  I  almost  wish  it  were  the  same  flower, 
Billy.  I  am  so  glad  to  be  back !  " 

"  But  I  don't  understand."  Gleason  stood  off  to 
see  her  the  better.  Suddenly  he  realised  that  she 
looked  tired  and  dusty,  and  he  made  her  sit  in  his 
arm-chair,  ordered  off  her  hat,  and  laid  it  down  on 
the  table  with  a  kind  of  clumsiness  that  never  loses 
a  man  anything  in  a  woman's  eyes.  "  How  on  earth 
did  you  get  here?  Just  walked  over  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment?  " 

Louisa  gave  a  little  smile  of  contentment,  closed 
her  eyes,  and  murmured,  "  It  is  so  good  to  be  here ! 
I  came  on  a  magic  carpet.  It  doesn't  matter  how  I 
came,  Billy.  Can't  you  see  that?  I've  forgotten! 
The  important  thing  is  that  I  am  here.  Isn't  it?  " 

"  It  is,  indeed,"  Gleason  agreed  promptly.  "  But, 
child  alive,  you  are  tired !  " 

"  Do  I  really  look  tired  ?  "  she  smiled  up  at  him. 
"  I  was,  but  I'm  not  tired  now." 

Gleason  studied  her,  and  his  mouth  tightened.  She 
sat  very  still,  her  hands  limp  and  her  eyes  closed,  and 
let  him  have  his  opportunity.  All  at  once  she  opened 
her  eyes  and  considered  him.  "  Billy,"  she  said. 


250  FAME-SEEKERS 

"  you  look  your  two  years  older.  And  I  ?  You  find 
me  changed?  "  There  was  a  little  catch  in  her  voice 
that  she  had  not  expected,  and  she  lifted  the  helio- 
trope to  hide  behind  it  for  a  moment's  breath. 

"  You  ?  I  don't  know  yet,"  said  Gleason 
brusquely.  "  Have  you  no  baggage,  Louisa  ? " 
He  fell  into  new  bewilderment. 

"  Dear  me,"  she  imitated  his  tone  for  an  instant, 
then  sank  back  into  her  chair  indifferently.  "  I 
must  have  forgotten  to  bring  any ! ' 

Gleason  towered  over  her,  his  hands  upon  the  arms 
of  her  chair.  "  Why  didn't  you  let  me  know,  let  me 
meet  you,  give  me  time  to  get  ready  for  you  ?  " 

She  gave  a  pretentious  little  shudder.  "  You  al- 
ways were  best  in  a  rage,"  she  remarked  with  amuse- 
ment. "  But  I'll  tell  you  why,"  she  added  quietly 
enough.  "  I  came  like  this,  Billy,  because  it  pleased 
me  to  come  without  warning,  because  I  had  a  childish 
desire  to  amaze  you  into  looking  really  glad  to  see 
me.  Because  I've  been  homesick,  and  it  is  a  dread- 
ful thing  to  be  homesick  and  to  have  no  place  to  go 
home  to.  So,  I  just  came  straight  out  here,  and  you 
really  must  let  me  *  make  believe  '  home  for  a  little 
while.  I  want  to  go  all  over  the  place  and  sit  in  the 
chairs,  and  look  out  of  the  windows,  and  touch  all  of 
the  friendly  things.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

Gleason  left  her  and  took  a  turn  or  two  up  and 
down  the  verandah.  He  stopped  before  her.  "  I'm 


LOUISA  GARTH  251 

a  mere  man,  Louisa,  and  I  need  facts  to  go  upon,  or 
I'm  likely  to  be  unsteady.  When  did  you  sail? 
How  did  you  come  out  here  from  town?  " 

Louisa  was  unable  to  answer  for  a  minute  before 
the  kindliness  of  him.  "  From  Cherbourg,"  she  an- 
swered with  a  gentleness  the  mere  words  in  nowise 
merited.  "  I  landed  yesterday  in  New  York.  I 
telephoned  down  town,  and  they  told  me  you  were 
here.  I  came  straight  out,  and  down  here  in  the 
stage.  That's  all." 

"  All  ?  "  echoed  Gleason.     "  And  your  baggage  ?  " 

"  Is  in  New  York.  I  haven't  come,"  she  laughed, 
"  to  stay  for  ever ! "  Then  she  flushed  slowly  over 
the  strange  sound  and  sense  of  her  own  thoughtless 
words.  "  My  coat  and  hand-bag,"  she  went  on  un- 
evenly, for  Gleason  had  taken  up  his  pacing  of  the 
verandah  again,  "  are  on  the  stone  bench  at  the  turn 
in  the  drive." 

"  I'll  be  back  again  in  a  minute,"  said  Gleason,  and 
disappeared  into  the  house. 

Louisa  sat  straight  in  her  chair,  staring  at  her  re- 
flection in  a  big  square  window  before  her,  terrified 
at  the  thought  her  words  had  sent  running  across  her 
senses. 

Gleason  came  back,  but  he  waited  by  the  door, 
holding  the  screen  open  for  her. 

She  came  to  him  at  once,  her  hat  in  one  hand  and 
the  flower  she  seemed  unable  to  get  away  from  in  the 


252  FAME-SEEKERS 

other.  He  had  waited  for  her  at  the  door  the  last 
time  they  had  been  there  together,  and  she  had 
taunted  him,  dawdled,  and  kept  him  waiting. 

"Your  room  is  just  about  as  you  left  it,"  said 
Gleason,  following  her  into  the  hall.  "  Just  do  as 
you  like  about  everything,  and  rest  till  dinner  time, 
then  to-night  we'll  talk  of  everything.  The  house- 
keeper will  be  up  in  a  moment.  She  is  new:  nearly 
everyone  about  the  place  is  changed  since  you  were 
here.  I'll  get  your  things  and  have  them  sent  right 
up  to  you.  Run  along,  and  rest  now !  " 

Louisa  turned  on  the  first  step  of  the  stair,  her 
hand,  with  the  flower,  holding  to  the  rail.  "  Billy," 
she  said  with  all  the  courage  she  could  gather  to- 
gether, "  I  really  didn't  think  of  it,  but  I  realise  now 
that  —  I  should  not  have  come  down  here  —  to  you, 
like  this !  It  was  —  stupid  —  "  She  did  her  best 
to  meet  his  eyes  frankly. 

Gleason  came  to  the  stairway,  and,  because  she 
was  standing  upon  the  step,  their  eyes  were  almost 
upon  a  level.  He  lifted  his  hand  and  quietly  took  the 
heliotrope  out  of  her  fingers,  then  dropped  it,  boy- 
ishly, into  the  pocket  of  his  flannel  jacket.  "  That's 
mine,"  he  said  laconically.  Then  he  folded  his  arms 
and  looked  into  her  eyes.  "  You  think  you  should 
not  have  come  to  me?  You  should  come  straight  to 
me  at  any  time,  and  from  anywhere,  and  under  any 
circumstances.  Now,"  he  smiled,  folding  his  arms 
more  tightly,  "  go  and  rest,  but  don't  forget  what  I 


LOUISA  GARTH  253 

have  told  you  till  I  have  had  time  to  make  you  un- 
derstand that  I  mean  it.  I  will  tell  you  one  other 
thing  now,  if  I  may?  " 

Louisa  lifted  her  hand  to  brush  back  her  hair,  but 
the  hand  was  unsteady  and  with  a  self-accusing  gmile 
she  put  it  back  upon  the  stair-rail. 

"  When  you  came  a  little  while  ago,  I  had  just 
been  re-reading  your  letter.  It  came  three  days  ago. 
I  was  planning  to  go  over  to  ask  you  to  come  back 
here  when  — 

"  I  came  without  being  asked?  " 

Gleason  smiled.  "  Does  that  make  it  right?  "  he 
insisted. 

"  Right ! "  she  echoed  hopelessly.  "  I  don't 
know ! " 

"  You  do  know !  "  declared  Gleason,  putting  his 
hands  upon  her  shoulders  and  compelling  her  to  look 
at  him.  "  Louisa,"  he  said  firmly,  "  don't  ever  tell 
lies  to  yourself,  or  to  me,  again.  Now,"  he  laughed, 
unevenly  too,  and  let  her  go,  "  go  to  your  room.  I 
want  to  think.  And  to-night  —  !  Dear  girl ! " 

Precipitately  she  ran  up  a  few  steps,  then  she 
turned  and  looked  down  upon  him,  gaiety  and  wist- 
fulness  playing  through  her  voica.  "  I  think,  Billy, 
that,  if  it  is  moonlight,  or  if  you've  a  lantern  about 
the  place,  that  we'd  better  begin  by  weeding  the  gar- 
den!" 

THE  END 


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